


Wayward Souls

by DriftingGlass



Series: The Courier and the Mage [1]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Courier!Gon, Dark Magic, Developing Friendships, Drama, Eventual Romance, Fantasy, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Friendship/Love, Homosexuality, Kingdoms and Magic and Stuff, M/M, Mage!Killua, Magic, Male Homosexuality, Mutual Pining, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Gon Freecss, Road Trips, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-11-04 04:45:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 87,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10983645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DriftingGlass/pseuds/DriftingGlass
Summary: Gon Freecss has been ordered to transport a notorious and bloodthirsty criminal thousands of miles to the execution block in the kingdom's Imperial Capitol.Enter Killua Zaoldyk, his prisoner and rather unwilling "travel-buddy."Of course, Gon does not expect to be just as drawn to the dark warlock as the other is to him. Not all is what they seem; wires get crossed, stories are shared, and what they find in each other may shake the very worlds they come from, and the paths they have laid out for them.





	1. The Prisoner

It would be twelve weeks until the next moon cycle. Twelve weeks until the King’s laws of culling those who did not boast the same blood as him would come into full effect, just in time for the turn of summer, the only accompanying season to the blistering, frosty winds and stripped branches of winter.

They balanced each other per moon cycle, both sun and moon casting shadows and rays of distorted light over valleys and dipping into lands unsearched, towards mountain spires piercing the sky like outstretched dragon claws. It was common for travelers and researchers of all kinds to traverse these landscapes with goods and people alike—prisoners, fine shipments of oils, perfumes, fine linens and cloths, fruits, vegetables, precious stones—across the perilous winding of roads from beyond the Tanisbourne Mountains, bleeding into the eventual collection of crooked towers and castle fortresses that formed the foundation for the Imperial Capitol of Antokiba. In the massive Palace of Kings, the monster himself waits to dine with his wife, cruel and somehow detached from the workings of the outer world.

Anyone with a sane mind despised the king for his ruthless actions and his inability to see anything outside of the mixture of his own blood and the perspective of his jaded, infamously beautiful wife. The wife to the fabled Mad King, presumably unaware of the many deaths and wrong executions taking place beneath her loved one’s command—

“You there! Yeah, the young man with the spiky hair! What’re you here for?”

The young man in question snaps out of his trailing thoughts and flashes a charming, full-toothed smile towards the haggard old woman standing at the front of the stables. Her apron is smudged with dirt and blood—pig’s blood, he guesses—and her thinly drawn frown instantly retracts at the sight of the stranger, who must seem horribly out of place in front of the iron-barred fortress set in front of them.

“I’m here on duty, Ma’am. I’m required to transport a criminal to the Capitol.” The words are bitter on his tongue. He approaches the woman, leather hide hiking boots sinking into freshly tilled soil, and stares up into her shocked, unblinking eyes. “I’ve never done this before, but I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to wait out here for them to bring out the prisoner, right?”

The older woman slowly shakes her head. “I’m afraid I don’ know much about that, sonny.” She cranes her neck and gestures towards the massive stone and metal wall before them, miles and miles high and infused with multiple steel-encrusted towers with hearths spitting green and blue flames. “Ya see, there’s at least… eh, I’ve lost count, but at least a few hundred prisoners in there. Only a few leave on this trip yer takin’ to the Capitol.” She clears her throat, glancing him up and down with one risen eyebrow. “You seem awfully… _young_ to have a task like this. You do know that most of the lads yer kind come here, take a prisoner, and most of the time never live to tell the tale or even return to the Capitol?”

Of course he’s aware. He’s known since he’d been instructed to do so that this was a famous suicide mission. Travelers, merchants, troupe members, servants of the castle, of the King, even, were often chosen to transport the most dangerous criminals from this very fortress embedded in the mountains, where guard dogs as large and menacing as dragons were stationed and guardsmen were armored to the brim with wits and intellect that outmatched any soldier. Prisoners would be stationed here, then tasked to a certain party of people or small group for leave to the Capitol for their proper execution, but it has never been done before without some form of death or destruction lingering on the usual paths taken. The forests were alive, the mountains were teeming with dangerous obstacles, and the prisoners themselves were often much stronger and more lethal than the task-enforcers taking them for months-long travel across the landscapes.

The traveler follows the woman’s gaze to the mountain fortress. He’s never seen anything like it, but he knows that this must be the place where he’s been instructed to go, the place where he’d find the criminal said to be the most bloodthirsty and dangerous mage to exist in decades.

 _A caster… maybe a wizard, or a warlock? Magic of some kind._ He shakes his head, pondering over these scenarios, wondering what the prisoner will be like. He should be more fearful of his life, as others have told him, but the lack of concern is easily pushed over by pure, unadulterated curiosity. He wants to see this prisoner up-close and introduce himself before informing him of his unfortunate fate.

“What’s yer name, son?” the woman asks, still studying him.

The traveler’s boyish grin returns tenfold. “Gon Freecss, ma’am.”

Instantly, the woman’s eyes bulge out of her skull. “ _Freecss_? As in, the son of _Ging_ Freecss?” The disbelief coloring her expression wavers as she observes him further, from the tips of his hair to the worn clothes he’s wearing, all the wa past his scruffy dark green sleeves and the laces of his mangled shoes. “My gods,” she says, as she begins to laugh, “I’ve heard stories of yer old man! Womanizer, thief, messenger to that foul, wretched King, conspirator…” she trails off, and fixates another look onto Gon, one that grows heavy on his heart. “And traitor.”

Gon slowly dips his head. He’s heard of the stories of his father many times from his own aunt. He pulls out a watch from his pocket, its chain links stretching like a quill-thin snake, and glances back to the doors.

“They might be coming out soon, sonny,” the woman says.

“Right. Thank you for your help, Miss.” He turns to her and bends his upper body in a half-bow. “It was an honor to meet you before making my journey back west. I wish you the best.”

And with that, he leaves the woman at her place in front of the stables, his hands swinging at his sides, his pace picking up ever so slightly, because despite the uncertainty drilling into the back of his skull, he’s _thrilled_ to witness the next steps. Already, he can picture what this prisoner will be like—maybe he’s massive, brutish by comparison, with menacing strength that can move mountains as well as he can cast bolts of lightning out of nothing. Or maybe he’s an old, old man—ageless, even, with a white beard cascading to his toes and a constant snark on his tongue. Maybe he’s not a _he_ at all but a beautiful woman, or an ugly, terrible woman.

He doesn’t know what to expect. He knows that he doesn’t even look like a true messenger for the King, especially with his lack of place outside of the world of commoners, with one foot in the castle doors and one remaining in the poverty-stricken streets of the Capitol slums.

He does, he guesses, look very much like his father, from what he’s been told. His long-sleeved, threadbare green shirt is darker than the forest in midsummer’s night, almost always accompanied with faded trousers he can easily roll up to his knees if he needs to wade through swamps or climb trees. He sports leather gloves, a cloak rippling from the back of his neck and down his back in a deep green current, and the belt wrapped tightly around his waist is home to many small bullet cases and vials of medicine that he can easily conceal from wandering thieves during his travels. His olive skin and deep black hair are trademark signs of the Freecss family, though his burning gold eyes are heavy with passion and hidden shadows, unbridled and unchanged since the moment he drew his first breath. At least, this is what Mito often tells him.

These, he believes, are far different from the eyes his father would have.

 _Of course I know what I look like,_ thinks Gon, _but what about the prisoner?_ What type of preparations will he have to make? He already has a wagon rented for their upcoming travels, and a beautiful gelding he’s sure will receive plenty of attention while they move. He’s looking forward to this dangerous journey—one he’ll probably die on, in all honesty—and he’s not sure why. Maybe it’s the adrenaline; he can easily blame it on that.

Then, the gates open. A _screech_ echoes from within the fortress as the doors push into the soil, carving fierce lines as reminders of what’s to come. Guardsmen flank the doors with their swords ready, uncertainty lining their hidden mugs in sweat bullets that even Gon can see from a mile away. He stops moving, tenses up his back and shoulders in case he needs to attack, and waits with bated breath for the prisoner to appear.

The prisoner is led out the front doors, pulled in tethered chains binding wrists behind his back, concealed beneath heavy folds of a ragged cloak, the hood pulled back ever so slightly, but not enough to reveal the individual’s features. Gon raises one eyebrow and takes a few steps backward, unsure, hesitant, but curious. His fingers inch towards the blade hidden in his belt, but he’d rather charge forward and make himself known rather than be cautious.

 _Caution_ isn’t normally a word he’d pluck out of his vocabulary.

One of the guardsmen snaps his head towards Gon. He shifts as a response, but smiles brilliantly regardless—the other is taken aback, but proceeds to throw the bound prisoner on his knees.

“You the most recent lapdog for the king?”

Gon shrugs. “If you consider travelers and transporters to be lapdogs.”

“Lapdog or not,” the guardsman says, his shaggy brown hair barely brushing his shoulders, “this one’ll rip out your throat with his teeth if you let ‘em. Keep your guard up.”

Gon turns back to the hunched figure on the gravel earth, shifting his shoes. He slowly leans down and crouches on his hind legs, tilting his head to further observe the shadowed features of the stranger. He wants to see the prisoner’s face, and despite the heavy sentence placed on his head, he can see nothing past the enchanted metal chains binding his wrists behind him and the clear royal spells holding back his magic.

Then, the figure lifts its head. A lump leaps through Gon’s throat.

“ _Sedu reduzite_.”

In that instant—as if taken by an invisible giant’s brutish hand—Gon is shot back several yards, clouds of dust kicking from his heels. He quickly flips himself over and plants his heels and fingers into the ground, blinking in shock and awe. He lifts his head, and sees that the stranger is now standing, the shadows only slightly receding to reveal tightly gritting teeth within a mouth as pale as moonlight.

The guardsmen do nothing. Instead, the prisoner screams in what Gon can only picture to be the most excruciating pain imaginable, his body crumbling forward and snarling into the earth. Saliva drips through his clenched teeth. One of the guardsmen walk forward and peel back his hood, snatching a handful of shocking silver-pale hair and drawing his head back.

“Listen, you little fucker,” snarls the guardsman, “cast anymore spells and your time in the Capitol will be even _worse_ than gettin’ your pretty head chopped off.”

“ _Fuck_ you, hypocrite,” says the prisoner, earning him a sharp _thwack_ to the side of the head with the butt of the guardsman’s spear. He clearly knows he’s treading hot water, but the sickeningly satisfied smile turning the corners of his lips indicates that he’ll gladly take the pain for that one moment of pride.

Gon swallows, slowly drinking in the other’s appearance, unsure of what to do.

Whether he likes it or not, he knows one thing: this prisoner, the very person he’s meant to lead across the rolling hills, valleys and mountain canals of the country to his untimely death, is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He’s covered in bruises and bleeding in sore spots around his neck and eyes, but the gods have surely blessed this prisoner to be more than just a wielder of deadly magic. His skin is liquefied starlight, shining porcelain beneath the blistering summer sun. His hair is blindingly white, even more so than the intimidating ice that binds trees and underbrush in winter’s harsh grasp. His eyes are wide and cautious and, as Gon looks further, terrified, but oh, they are misty pools of churning cerulean waves, like the very ocean that borders the Four Kingdoms.

And Gon knows this person has killed thousands of people. Has been referred to as the most formidable and powerful dark mage in centuries, teeming with bloodthirst and a tendency to ignore any sense of humanity in his presence. He hardly finds this believable from his appearance alone, and the fact that he sees nothing but one emotion in the other’s disposition: _fear_.

“Take him off of this property and make sure his punishment is worse than the death already promised to him.”

Gon only nods, because what else is there for him to do? He calmly takes the chains in his hands, glancing across the links and toward the criminal mage in his grasp. The white-haired man glares at him, those ethereal eyes hardening into gemstones.

“You just going to stare at me all day or something?” he snarls, prickling in a very feline manner. Gon holds back a chuckle at this, shaking his head.

“We’ll get moving soon. But, first thing’s first—you need food and water, right? You don’t look like you’ve been fed at all.” He surveys the other’s appearance, all the while ignoring the other man’s rapidly blinking eyes. “Yeah, it doesn’t seem like they’ve properly fed you. Come on. I’ll take us to get some food and we’ll be on our way.”

Then, the mage breaks into a fit of laughter. It’s mocking and harsh and unbelieving. Gon raises an eyebrow and watches him as he does so, the action awkward and misplaced with how cold it sounds. He wonders what he would sound like if he was in a different state of mind behind it.

“Ah, right, a cruel joke, isn’t it? Come on, who’s really taking me to my resting place?”

Gon slowly shakes his head. “Sorry to disappoint you,” he begins with a sheepish smile. “I’m Gon Freecss, your guide to the Capitol!” He uses one free hand to scratch the back of his head while the prisoner acknowledges him blankly. “This isn’t a joke. I wouldn’t make one as cruel as that.” He shrugs. “It’s not like I’m especially qualified for this, anyway. It is what it is.”

The mage raises one eyebrow, gobsmacked. “You’re…” He blinks. “You’re serious.”

“Mmm-hm.” Gon chuckles slightly at the other’s expression. “What’s your name?”

“Oh fuck that. You seriously think I’m going to tell you?”

The prisoner scoffs and rolls his eyes. At this point, Gon has noticed that the doors to the fortress have closed, with no witnesses in sight. He’s silently glad enough to entertain this person well past the point of him casting another language-based spell. It felt strange, being hurled across the dirt by an invisible force, but he would rather not find out what else this teenager could do.

“Well,” says Gon, “this will be a long journey. I think it might be pleasant for both of us if we at least share that much.” He shrugs. “But, suit yourself.”

The prisoner snorts as the other turns his back. “Idiot, you should know anyway.”

Gon rolls his eyes and, once again, gives a simple shrug of his shoulders.

“Killua, you fool.”

Gon stiffens, and slowly turns to the prisoner. This name, he knew.

Everyone knew.

“Killua Zaoldyk.” The mage’s lips turn up once more, and a dark storm passes through those hauntingly beautiful irises. “Scared yet?”


	2. The Courier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killua doesn't want to admit that he's curious (and annoyed) by the person taking him to his execution. Yet, for some reason, he knows the other feels the same.

_This is my transporter?_

The mage fixates one bemused eye onto the courier, the enchanted chains and ropes binding his wrists just enough to constrain any further act of magic. He lifts his head, scoping the surroundings of the resting stop just five miles from the stables outside the mountain fortress—the very prison where he’d been contained his entire life from the moment he drew his first breath.

An icy chill spreads beneath his skin, turning his blood into a static current. He twiddles his thumbs, glaring harshly into a wooden cup filled to the brim with water in front of him.

The floorboards creak and smell of wet socks, salted fish and blood. He’s been accustomed to these rancid smells before, and still his nose wrinkles, as if smelling these similar waves of stench for the first time.

Killua's first impressions of the courier are riddled with unsureness. He hadn’t expected the King’s most recent transporter to be so young, at least. He was well-aware of the expectations given to the transporters and couriers who reported to the Imperial Capitol of Antokiba with little to their name other than twelve copper pieces and maybe sacks filled with flour and vegetables.

Most couriers lived past the edge of Windsvoryne, the lining border between the mountains and the woodlands, far to the west. It was difficult for the mage to believe that any courier would be willing to respond to a letter from the King demanding his services when couriers from the western territory—poor and downtrodden even in their best days—were easily the farthest from the Capitol.

 _And undoubtedly the least welcome._ Killua scrunches his nose at the thought.

He was curious as to what the monsters would look like during this time of year, when the next shift in the moon cycle was coming so close.

Still, winter’s grasp would be upon them before anyone could predict it.

Killua dares not lift a finger at the courier. The other young man is standing at the counter, ordering various supplies from a confused tender who Killua swears resembles more of a friendly, humanistic ox than an actual person.

Gon turns to glance at him, as if in reference, before turning back to the tender and placing a handful of coins on the wooden countertop. The other man raises an eyebrow in acknowledgement, and glances briefly towards Killua—who can’t resist the snarl that rises up in his throat—before his own face blanches.

“Y-You’re transporting a _Zaoldyk_?”

The courier half-shrugs and plops an extra coin on the table. He winks at the tender, his smile stretching to impossible lengths on both sides of his face.

“King’s orders. It’ll make the journey there all the more exciting, right? The more the merrier!”

Killua slowly shakes his head, biting the inside of his cheek to hold back a grin.

This foolish man has no idea what he’s getting himself into.

Gon comes over to him, his brow furrowed in painstaking concentration as he rifles through the belongings he’s just purchased. Killua scans the remnants of traveling packages filled with dried fruits, nuts, seeds, and meat jerky. He leans back in his chair to avoid letting his mouth water at the sight; he’d rather fold over and die than allow anyone to see him weak.

Despite his magical prowess, even he cannot magic away his own hunger.

“Here.”

Killua turns and stares blankly toward the pink, rosy apple Gon is promptly handing to him. With his other hand, the courier bites into his own apple, his smile cheesy and too open for Killua’s liking.

Embarrassment crawls up the mage's neck, and he cautiously allows his bound hands to swipe the apple from Gon, scrutinizing the surface with calloused fingertips.

“I didn’t poison it or anything, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” Gon places his hands in the loops of his trousers, letting out a low whistle. “Still, we should get going. We’ll be heading to Endoin first, which is… around a day’s travel from here.”

The mage slowly stands up. “You won’t make it that far.” He shrugs and bites into his apple, chewing contentedly and ignoring the courier's blank expression. “Those woods are infested with monsters, birds the size of your own cart, bandits, you name it. None of it is meant for country bumpkin couriers like yourself.”

Despite his icy words, he knows, somehow, that this courier is tough enough to listen to whatever he has to say.

Hell, he hadn’t even batted an eyelash at hearing the mage's _name._

 _Whatever._ Killua holds back a snort as he bites into the apple. 

Whatever this _Gon_ character's game turns out to be, he will be prepared for it. 

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, the mage suppresses begrudging delight at just how satisfying and perfectly ripe this apple is, and then it dawns on him that he hasn’t taken a bite of fresh fruit in _years_.

As soon as he sinks his teeth into the apple’s crunchy flesh, the euphoric taste turns out richly sweet as it slips over his tongue and down his throat.

“Guess we’ll just have to see how brutal this journey is, then,” says Gon.

Killua eyes him warily. “You’re insane. We’ll both die, you know, if we just head straight through the woodlands and the mountains—"

“No we won’t.” Gon grins crookedly. “It’s my job to take you to to the Imperial Capitol, and if I have to be the first courier from the western territory to do so, then so be it. Neither of us are going to die anytime soon.”

Well, that’s certainly not the answer Killua expected. He eyes the courier as he has his back turned, tracing the intricate black spikes for hair, the deep olive tone of his skin and the whimsical glow to his amber-gold eyes.

There’s much more to him than the bounce in his step and the strange optimism that clings to him like a swarm of flies.

Gon leads him out of the resting stop, his loose sleeves and tunic hardly concealing the muscles rippling like cords beneath his skin. Killua has already observed him long enough to know that this courier has undoubtedly faced hardships before, even judging from the faint traces of scars lining his hands and the fierce callouses marring his palms and fingers.

His smile is constant and glued to each side of his face as if he’s always ready to break out into a laugh, and only vanishes when he’s utterly focused on the task at hand or trying to count the amount of copper pieces he has left in his coinpurse.

Honestly, Killua hadn’t expected his courier to be like this at all.

He’d expected harsh words, whiplashes, a stream of insults or total silence, but there has already been more than one instance where this green-clad man actually bothers to try and strike up a conversation. Within the few miles they’ve traveled from the entrance of the prison fortress embedded in the most chilling mountain caverns he's ever encountered, Killua has kept his mouth shut to block the garrulous courier from asking questions past the exchanging of names.

Gon arranges two geldings to lead a wagon, their auburn and white-striped flanks frigid with cold. Killua squints up, past the trees spiraling towards the graying sun, the white orb in the distance barely resembling the sky’s heart in the hottest summers. He turns back to Gon, who finishes arranging several threadbare sacks filled with twined clusters of vegetables, grains and seeds, tying the ends with an even thicker rope. He bites on the end of one twine, snaps it, and uses a surprisingly meticulous maneuver to weave the thin wire into loops.

Killua sighs, turns his back to the wagon and promptly leans against the wooden boards. Every now and then the wagon shakes with Gon’s movement on the contraption, but he hardly finds his boredom accommodating.

He’s destined to die, after all. As far as he’s concerned there’s nothing he can really do to get out of this situation unless he finds the right time to kill the courier.

“There, all set!” Gon pipes up.

Killua removes himself from the wagon and eyes the courier skeptically. “What?”

“Look! I set it up for you so you don’t get backaches or anything on the journey. It’s around a thousand miles, after all, and you won’t be able to sleep unless it’s comfortable.”

Gon stretches his arms out wide, as if proud of his accomplishment. Killua follows his gesture to the knit blankets thrown onto the wagon, carefully and snugly gathered between the sacks.

He snorts. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Gon raises an eyebrow at this, tilting his head. Killua can hardly believe just how surprised and confused this transporter looks when he should know exactly why this kind gesture is all the more… misplaced.

“I’m going to die anyway,” says Killua. “Why bother?”

Gon shrugs at this. “Why not?”

Honestly, he switches between being unbearably simple and outright too complicated for his own good in the span of only a few seconds. Killua wonders if any spirits or monsters would have these types of encounters with each other outside of their rooted expectations.

His courier was supposed to be brutal, uncaring, ruthless—both verbally and physically.

He certainly was not supposed to make a _bed_ for his _prisoner_.

“You’re the worst possible candidate for this job, you know.”

He glares harshly into Gon’s bewildered expression. Static dances along his fingertips, begging for release yet continuously held back within the chains locking his magic in place. He hates how restricted he feels, despite how powerful the language of mages can be when used correctly; his own words will be brought back to him tenfold if he tries anything.

“You know, one would think to be, I don’t know, _grateful_ for this. I could just let the wagon drag you behind us by your ankles. I’ve done it before.”

With yet another halfhearted shrug, Gon gestures with an open arm towards the foot of the wagon, where the unfurled, thick blankets lay rumpled and covered in hay, but still somehow more appealing than any bed Killua had been subjected to over the last few years.

The mage rolls his eyes. “I’m a prisoner. It’s expected for you to be cruel. Not…” He struggles to find the correct words. He points at the blankets and then glares at Gon. “Not _this_ , at least! Part of me wonders if you’re some mage bounty hunter who’s only acting like the King’s courier!”

Gon’s head reels back and he explodes into laughter. Killua flushes instantly at this reaction, turning around him and watching as skeptical passersby watch the odd semi-strangers in their pre-traveling confrontation.

A vein pops in Killua's forehead, a dull ache ebbing into his temples, as he turns back to Gon and allows his frosty eyes to narrow.

“What the hell is so funny?”

Gon shakes his head, his entire body practically vibrating. He looks twelve years old with each smile and chuckle, but this is taking him into another realm of reality entirely, something Killua hasn’t actually seen on anyone before.

This man is practically a child trapped in the body of some lean, athletic country boy who treats his criminals as if he’s inviting them over for afternoon tea.

“ _You_ are," says Gon, his smile wide. "Let’s get going. The sun will set soon and we should at least be heading through the first few villages by sundown. Endoin will be in our sight before we know it.”

Killua blinks. Slowly.

“What? You’re going to just…” _Brush this off? What the fuck?_

This courier is so gallant in his confidence that Killua can’t decide whether or not he’s just incredibly stupid or unmistakably brave.

Or, both, for that matter.

“You sure do complain a lot.”

Gon cracks a small grin, and has the audacity to give a slight tug to the chains leading to Killua’s manacles. He hobbles forward as a result, staring icily into the frustrating bonds connecting them together, as if they have a choice.

Gon technically does, but for some reason he finds some terrible amusement in the current situation.

It causes the hairs on Killua's neck to rise and his hands to ball into fists.

“If you were in my place,” says Killua, barely above a whisper, “you would too.”

Gon stops. He turns and fixates a blank look onto the mage prisoner.

Killua stiffens, his hands pausing on the back of the wagon, returning the confused look tenfold. There’s a conversation brewing in those amber depths, and despite the heavy pull that he can’t explain towards them, the mage knows he can resist if he ducks his head.

But, he doesn’t. He allows the moment of silence to pass, like an invisible thread twining something intangible and unnoticeable together. A lack of understanding between both parties.

“Can I call you Killua?”

He doesn’t expect this question, either. It’s blurted rather frankly into the open, as if any casual question, but already its place in the world as a sentence at all should be banned. Killua can hardly find any relief other than banging his head against a nearby tree and mulling over his growing self-pity as to why and how he can’t possibly be with a person like this—

“You can call me Gon, if you want. We don’t,” Gon pauses, his brow furrowing. Killua finds this expression oddly amusing, and quite fitting, for this oddball man. “We don’t have to be strangers. It’s a long journey ahead. I know you don’t like me and everything, and I don’t blame you for feeling that way at all.”

Killua’s eyes widen at this. He’d already planned a response, but it dies quickly on his tongue. He closes his mouth tightly and slowly dips his head as an indicator for the other man to continue, the grip on the chains loosening between them.

“I’m not saying we have to be friends, but we should at least… I don’t know, get past that other barrier between strangers. Acquaintances, at least, maybe? It’ll be easier for both of us.”

For a brief moment, Killua remembers long tresses of glossy raven hair, framing the deathly angelic, angular cheekbones and pale, pale skin of an illusion only he can see in his dreams. Twin orbs of endless shadows and deep black are embedded in this mask, ghostly words traveling in snakelike trails through Killua’s mind and heart—gripping him, taunting him, holding him—as he listens to this courier babble like a complete idiot.

_“You do not need friends. They simply get in the way. And mages as powerful as you aren’t meant to have them."  
_

Killua swallows the lump in his throat, and ignores the growing sweat clamming up his palms.

He eyes Gon as the other watches him, both stares searching and unforgiving.

“We’re not friends. You’re taking me to be killed. I hardly consider that a place where we should even be having this conversation.”

A tremor ruptures through his system, calling towards the biological components within him that are different from a normal man’s, that command the very spellbinding tension of electric currents he knows he can so easily control.

“I don’t even know why I’m talking to you,” Killua says with a snort, and turns sharply back to the wagon. “Aren’t _you_ the one who said we should get going?”

Gon, to his surprise, says nothing.

Killua shakes his head and moves into his spot on the wagon, purposefully ignoring the blankets and grinding his teeth at feeling insulted over the matter. He’s tougher than this foolish courier would come to believe. He’s from the western territory, so what could he possibly know as far as the extent of what’s been put at stake—

 _Wait_.

Killua’s brow furrows. He leans back against the wooden panels separating him from the driver, where Gon sits with the horses’ reigns in his sturdy hands.

Killua listens, steadily, to the other male hum a small tune to himself, something ancient by nature and surely a song of some kind.

A story.

He will have to think the name of it later, as he’s undoubtedly heard it many times.

_“I could just let the wagon drag you behind us by your ankles. I’ve done it before.”_

The mage stiffens.

He hadn’t paid attention to just how dark and serious those words were, as if Gon was unintentionally threatening him with strength he had not yet shown.

“So,” says Killua. He may as well test his theory.

“Hm?” Gon keeps his eyes fixed forward. He’s oddly trustworthy, considering the circumstances of their dynamic and where they’re going.

Killua rolls the question over his tongue, but he knows that if a confrontation arises, he would most likely have the upper hand. He’s allowed to be curious about the man surely leading him to his eventual death, of course. It would be shameful to deny the chance to ask now when the words are so fresh on his mind.

“You say you’ve done that before? Let a wagon drag a prisoner by the ankles?”

A pause stirs between them. The wagon shakes as it glides over pebbles ingrained in the path.

They are heading into the first stretch of the woodlands, where the trees are tallest as they slope inward towards separate clearings. Wild animals, both bloodthirsty and harmless, would lurk in the shadowed depths beyond, yet not once has Killua heard any form of hesitation from his presumed transporter.

Gon sounds as if he’s smirking with his reply: “What do you think?”

The mage shrugs. “I don’t really believe it. You don’t look like you could hurt a fly.”

“Probably not a fly,” says Gon with a small pause. “But people who’ve wronged me, that’s another story.”

Killua ponders over this. The way Gon speaks lacks any fluctuation from his normal tone, familiar and connected to his own brand of identity that few probably understand unless those close to him. Then again, he seems like a drifter, someone who rarely attaches himself too prominently to any given situation.

Killua has observed other people throughout his entire life, whether or not they were meant to die by his hand.

He hasn’t been wrong yet.

“And,” continues Gon, wagging one finger in the air as if giving a lecture, “I never said it was a prisoner I was dragging behind the wagon. I have done it though. Quite a few times, actually.”

Curiosity seeps into Killua’s skin, traveling like goose bumps. He leans back, eyes flickering to the sides of the wagon, and then he pulls his head to look up towards the receding skyline.

The pines and rowans gather overhead like a looming cloak.

“Who were those people?” His tone feigns indifference, but he’s almost embarrassed to how intrigued he is to listen to the other’s story.

He would have to entertain himself _somehow_ in the last few weeks (or months) of his life…

“I’ll tell you if you let me call you Killua.”

The mage bristles and resists a steady groan. He glares down at his manacles, realizing just how ridiculous this entire scenario is, and glares pointedly into the wooden floorboards and sacks of vegetables and grains spread out in front of him.

“Fine. Whatever. Not like I care, or that it’ll be much use until after we reach Antokiba.”

Gon seems satisfied with this, as he dips his head, but he doesn’t turn to look at Killua.

He’s oddly confident of himself given his situation, the mage notes.

“I’m not the greatest storyteller, but it’s all true, so I guess there’s that to it.”

He clears his throat, and for a moment, the taut muscles in his back seem to loosen beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. Killua watches him closely, suddenly hanging on to each word that the other man is about to say.

“I’ve killed people too, Killua.”

The mage’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline.

_This guy? A killer?_

It couldn’t be possible.

“I’ve killed a lot of people, actually. That was a long time ago, though. Six years. I was too young to be convicted of anything and the King saw potential in me as a tool for future use. I was forbidden from leaving the western territory with my aunt, so I’ve never actually been to Antokiba. Having that letter as an invitation to transport you is the first time I’ve been legally permitted to even be here, on this path, with this wagon.”

Killua’s heart is steady and rushed at the same time beneath his ribs. He can taste the sourness in the back of his throat, riddled with his uncertainty and curiosity.

“Six years ago?” He tilts his head. “That would make you—”

“I was fourteen. I turn twenty in two weeks.” Gon gives a light shrug, as if sensing Killua’s blank stare drilling into his back. “Not the youngest, of course. I know that you were younger and killed more people. So, you have that, I guess. I had specific targets, though. And it was…” He drifts off, before snapping back straight and rapidly shaking his head. “Uh—anyway,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his head with one hand, “I’m not the most innocent person in the world either. We’ve both committed crimes, so—so yeah, I wouldn’t really see it as fair if I treated you lesser than myself.”

Killua barely has time to actually process what he’s heard.

None of it makes sense to him, but for reasons he can’t explain, he finds himself actually believing the man taking him across the country to meet his death.

 _Guess we have more in common than we thought, Freecss_. Killua’s teeth grit behind closed lips.

The trees and underbrush around them begin to blur into varying shades of green, overlain in brittle browns and fading reds of the autumn cycle.

Winter would be coming soon, and they would be caught in the middle of the harshest storms.

As he drifts into slumber, Killua wonders if they’re prepared at all for what’s to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who commented on and left kudos for this story on the first chapter! I really appreciate it. Thank you, and please leave a comment below if you have a question or thought on the story or anything in particular.
> 
> I'm curious, wonderful readers: what do YOU think will happen in the forthcoming chapters? Throw out those predictions and see if they come true. You just might be close. ;)


	3. The First Night

The woodlands split, twined and crossed throughout the split kingdoms like a crumpled spool of thread.

There was hardly a time where Gon wouldn’t be able to remember his aunt’s stories drifting through the creaking floorboards of their cottage, the stone hearth bursting with orange and red plumes—flowers of new life, a symbol seen as welcoming or forbidden, depending on where it was hailed.

The trees loomed over his cottage in the far western territory in gentle shadows, teeming with harmless birds and the consistent, rushed bustle of insects. He would sit outside in the grassy plains of their home, his aunt—as beautiful, radiant and kind as any angel in legend—would weave her fingers through his unruly hair as she recalled the story of the original kingdoms and the continent from which they came from.

Crisp, soft leaves would dress his shoulders and he would blink up towards the hot, burning sun, only to squint forward upon noticing approaching soldiers on horseback, flags colored crimson, purple and gold billowing in the sharp summer winds—

“Yo.”

Gon blinks and nearly jumps at the rock that rolls under the wagon. He groans, rolling back his shoulders, his spine and shoulder blades ricocheting with audible  _pops._

His horses slow to a stop, their wheezes filling the silent void that followed twilight in the woodlands.

He hadn’t even noticed how many hours had gone by, and never even thought of how easy it would be to become lost in his memories, and even miss the way his aunt messed with his hair.

“Did you stop breathing or something?”

Gon slowly shakes his head as an answer. He’s only half-aware that the prisoner he’s transporting across the country to meet his fate is still there. There’s more running through his mind, but the simple direction is going forward, and he wants to continue on without even thinking of what’s transpiring in the dark forest behind them.

They’ve been lucky in not having found or encountered anything terrible yet.

Wolves. Bears. Wyverns. Chimeras. Many possibilities lingering in the shadows, not just from stories but from war-torn tales that were local, that came from his aunt’s own heart. He’d witnessed the bloodied soldiers, the distraught looks of sons, daughters, wives and husbands tending to one another amidst brutal chaos.

“We should set up camp,” says Gon. He hops off the wagon and gently brushes one hand along one gelding’s flank. The horse neighs into his hand, black, soft eyes brimming with intelligence that only he would be able to find. He smiles and pats the creature’s snout. “Plus, I think our noble steeds are tired.”

“Noble steeds?” The mage barks out a harsh laugh, followed by a sharp roll of his eyes.

Gon doesn’t even turn to look at him; he doesn’t want to even show the slightest hint of a smile back. Part of him wants to tease the prisoner further, or ask him another question, as the hours of utter quietness had divulged their sense of comfort just slightly.

“Hardly," says Killua, "I’ve seen better breeds.”

“But not more loyal ones,” Gon chirps.

The mage scowls and shrugs. “Sure. I’ll give you that. The ones I saw were bigger, brawnier for sure. Shinier pelts. But they’d ditch you in a second.” A shadow passes through his eyes, which shine much more prominently beneath the light of the moon.

Gon has to keep himself focused on the geldings to avoid staring at the mage for too long.

It’s incredibly distracting, being tasked with a traveling companion who appears as a child of the moon and stars themselves. He doesn’t seem real, but every part of him is, down to his lethal magic and a thirst for blood that sends Gon immediate images of his victims bleeding in the earth, their hearts torn out, their throats forcefully closed by invisible hands.

Killua Zaoldyk, the prodigious exiled heir to the Zaoldyk bloodline, standing over his victims with his fingernails sharpened and eyes narrowed, horribly cruel and strangely feline. Just how many dreams did that face, did those bloodied hands, did that  _name_ , haunt?

Gon knows very well what the mage is capable of.

And yet…

“You know, I’m going to need help setting up camp.”

The prisoner blinks at him. He doesn’t seem entirely convinced, though Gon supposes he can hardly blame him. There is not one lick of intelligence in what he’s just said, or the underlying implications beneath his own words.

“You want to make a bargain or something? I know you’re capable of pitching a tent and hoisting around firewood. Hell, even if in some separate dimension we were traveling the world together or whatever, I wouldn’t help you even start a fire. Nimrod.”

Gon can’t resist the chuckle that escapes him. “Alright. Suit yourself.”

This catches Killua’s attention. “You’re not serious.”

“Well, I was. I trust you. Besides, if you kill me, it’s not like reinforcements aren’t far. You’d be tethered back down and sent back to the fortress, pretty sure.”

“You’re a moron, you know that?” The prisoner doesn’t even have enough energy to dissect everything wrong with what Gon is saying, which is exactly why he bothered instigating such a ridiculous concept in the first place.

They’re still strangers, hardly acquaintances, and the strange barrier placed between them makes Gon wonder if, in another reality, they would be friends.

“Do you believe in alternate realities?”

Killua, still semi-relaxed on the wagon, slightly perks up at this question. He looks uncomfortable, with bruises lining his eyelids and his tousled snowy hair strung through with bits and pieces of rotten vegetables and hay. He rolls his own shoulders and cracks his neck, glaring towards the courier with both eyebrows risen to his hairline.

“Why are you asking?”

“I’m just curious.”

Killua closes his mouth to stifle the insult he’d already prepared. A ray of thoughtfulness glows on his features, illuminating the sharp angles of his jaw and surprising tenderness in his eyelids. He honestly looks like he hasn’t slept in centuries. A cursed immortal of sorts, destined to be armed with deadly magic that kills without hesitation.

Gon shrugs and maneuvers to the other side of the wagon. He takes off his shoes, sinking his toes into the fresh soil and watching as rays of moonlight dance along the underbrush.

Tall bluebells and smaller daisies have already begun sprouting, but with the upcoming promise of winter they will soon wither away as if they were never there.

“I think magic originates from another dimension. So, an alternate reality wouldn’t be _im_ possible, I guess.”

Gon straightens his back and turns towards the mage. He can hardly keep his jaw from slacking and resists pointing both fingers in surprise at the prisoner. Killua simply acknowledges him with a blank look, a slight blush rising beneath his cheeks.

“W-What are you staring at?”

A small smile turns the corners of Gon’s mouth. “You responded!”

“Yeah? So?” The mage snorts and turns towards the wagon with a sneer. “A-anyway, what’s with all the vegetables? I’ve seen maybe a hundred peppers on this wagon. Those are easily the nastiest things to ever exist. Seriously.”

This time, Gon doesn’t hold back his laughter. 

* * *

Killua keeps his distance while Gon gathers supplies from the wagon and set down enough logs in the small clearing for the two of them.

Gon stations the two geldings near a tiny cluster of trees that were short enough to differentiate from the other winding oaks, rowans, birches and elders. Eventually, he sets two baskets in front of them filled with fresh apples and straw clippings, cooing gentle words to the animals and brushing down their manes with the brush he kept in his satchel.

The moon is stark-white, surrounded by starless black clouds.

Gon turns to the fire, watching as the flames spiral upwards like fierce, yet subdued, threads of orange, black and even white strobing against the dusky atmosphere.

He swallows, simultaneously unsure of inhaling so much smoke and also curious about how high the flames would reach if he kept feeding it. He reaches into the basket of food set beside him and pulls out a loaf of raisin bread, and looks briefly at the mage, who is more transfixed with the fire a good twenty yards away in the clearing.

The prisoner is staring up at the moon, almost squinting, the light from both the temporary fire and the white disc in the sky casting luminescent glows onto his form.

His robes become washed in white and gold, his profile shadowed in careful dips and angles, the narrow bones more pronounced with the lack of nourishment he’s been given.

Gon swallows one bite from the handful of nuts and fruits in his palm, and tilts his head to the side in thoughtfully addressing the mage’s peaceful appearance. He’s never imagined that the prisoner would ever appear like this.

Certainly not the teenaged killer who was rumored to thrive on the taste of blood rolling across his tongue, savor in the stealing of the dead’s souls and laughing as it all happened.

Quietly, Gon takes out a small pot barely the size of his clenched fists rammed together. He removes two yams and a handful of smaller red potatoes from one of many bags thrown onto the wagon. He slips out of his vest and allows the cool night breeze to sway through his loose sleeves and hiss across the slight dip in the cloth over his chest.

The fire’s warmth is soothing on his sun-kissed skin, already bronze from hot summers tilling the fields outside his aunt’s cottage.

Gon cranes his neck, and allows his eyes to wander over the prisoner. He’s not comfortable with the strange distance between them, even though he knows that the mage could flee at any moment with little restriction, although the chains and manacles constricting his magic and range of motion would be enough to keep him linked to his wagon.

“Killua,” calls Gon, almost needing to cup one hand over his mouth for an echo-effect, “I’m boiling potatoes if you want some!”

The mage snaps out of whatever trance he’s in and turns to the courier questioningly. “Think it would be kind of weird for you to sit down with a prisoner and eat potatoes.”

Gon shrugs. “Maybe. But, neither of us are normal, right?” He holds up the tiny pot and grins broadly. “Also, you’re coming with me to the river! We need to get some fresh water for boiling!"

Killua snorts. “You’re joking.”

“Nope! If you want to eat, you gotta help me cook.”

The mage suppresses what Gon can only assume to be a mixture between an annoyed frown and an amused grin.

A second passes between them, quicker than a heartbeat, and then the mage finally dips his head with a long, heavy sigh.

“Fine. Not like I have a choice.”

“You know, Killua,” says Gon, taking his deliberate time to come much closer to the mage with his pot swinging at his side. The prisoner scowls at him in return. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were prejudiced against potatoes.”

He smirks at the annoyance flashing through the mage’s eyes, though the former Zaoldyk heir can barely hold back his own snort of disbelief at Gon’s words.

“What did they ever do to you? They’re great for you!”

“Yams are fine,” admits Killua begrudgingly. Gon holds back a smile. “They’re kind of sweet and rich, and they’re nice when basked in a casserole…” He trails off, a sudden lightness disappearing from his irises as quickly as it appears.

His jaw clenches, and he dips his head, purposefully glancing away from Gon and not allowing him to glimpse over his shaded features.

“Obviously that was before, you know, being in there.”

A terrible weight seizes Gon’s chest, grappling his heart in shatteringly cold manacles. He pushes down the lump in his throat.

He hardly knows the mage well enough to believe every word he says, but the slight glance of joy and remembrance that shone in Killua’s eyes in that moment were nothing short of breathtaking.

Only for that sensation to vanish in favor of something deadlier. Something darker.

Gon nods. “Well, luckily for both of us, I have yams too. You can have mine, if you want.”

The mage stiffens at this. “… It’s fine.”

Gon decides that it’s best to leave the conversation at that, and continues striding ahead.

Maneuvering down the gentle slopes of the deeper edge of the forest seems almost fairytale-like. Gon keeps close to Killua, glancing every now and then to see if the Zaoldyk would be attempting to remove his shackles or whisper foreign chants to summon some otherworldly phenomenon, but ever since meeting him in front of the prison fortress the prisoner had not tried anything else.

He remembers being easily shot off the ground and pushed back with a heavy, invisible force, with the ease of snapping his own fingers.

Gon’s brow furrows, inhaling the sweet, gentle winds caressing the darkened corners of the woods. A faint trickling is heard in the distance, birds and mammals surely gathering not far at all from where he had decided to set up a temporary campsite. Water babbles and winds through the woodlands in forked creeks, hidden in safe haven spots in the dense forest that would be valuable to find immediately. Sooner rather than later. 

Killua remains close to him (forcibly so), his manacles humming tentatively with lucid glow. Gon turns to him, grinning.

“Think it’s close by. We should try to follow the creek.”

The mage nods, wordless.

Gon shrugs. “So, earlier, you said you believed in alternate dimensions, then?” He keeps his stride slightly behind the mage as to make sure he wouldn’t try to run, but something tells him that the former Zaoldyk heir wouldn’t attempt to break free from their forced connection so quickly.

Killua hesitates, the slight movement of his shoulders indicating he’s caught between a shrug. “Sure. That’s what most mages are taught when they’re approved to wield magic.”

He keeps his held high, a casual gait suddenly taking hold of his posture. Gon instantly sees it as a sort of act; the mage hasn’t even bothered putting up any type of illusory image since their first encounter that very morning. Oddly enough, traveling on the road for an entire day with only the wagon and two horses as additional company has already painted a series of images. A series of expectations that he’s not sure how to apply to the prisoner he’s been ordered to transport across the country.

Still, Gon wants to press him a little further. Unveil the layers promised beneath the former stranger with moon-blessed hair and skin.

“What do they teach mages? Where did you learn?”

Killua stops, and slightly turns his body to halfway face the courier. A suspicious mask is concealing the possible curiosity lacing his frown. Something else—insistence, maybe—is swimming in those haunting irises. He clears his throat, glances towards the growing dark in the woods, the silver moon overhead, and then back towards Gon.

The courier blinks at him and boasts his most casual grin.

They realize that they both have stopped, staring at one another with unwavering focus.

“Heh.”

A small, genuine smirk breaks out onto his lips, and he tilts his head back in a burst of laughter. It rings through the hollow belly of the woods, almost musical to its sound.

Gon’s eyes widen as he registers it, memorizes every turn and shift of Killua’s voice as it allows itself to be… happy.

Gon’s heart flutters and drops in confused rhythm, but he’s sure that he’s unable to hide his growing willing to listen to whatever the mage has to say.

“Been a long time since anyone has bothered asking me directly about magic. And from a country-born weirdo, no less.” Killua rolls his eyes, but turns to Gon with a slight nod. “Guess there’s no other way to pass the time.”

Gon smirks. “I mean, the _great_ Killua Zaoldyk has some sort of story, doesn’t he?”

Killua snorts. “You’re willing to probe a nationwide murderer just to please your weird story-hearing craving?”

The courier laughs. “Sure, you could say that.”

“You’re the strangest person I’ve ever met. I don’t even think I’m awake right now. I’m still at the prison fortress, sleeping and having this weird, _awful_  nightmare.”

Yet, the mage is amused, and Gon wants to keep it that way.

He’s not sure why, or why he even cares to this extent when he knows the fate that will befall him, but the thought of walking through these woods alone with a prisoner who isn’t enjoying himself at least a little bit is more than just slightly disheartening.

“I didn’t learn in an organized school like most royally appointed mages. Wizards, warlocks and spellcasters of all kinds aren’t usually permitted to practice magic outside certain borders. Since King Meruem is on the throne there’s a much stricter policy following that, I guess.”

Killua ponders, his brow furrowing in concentration, and then his eyes widening in recognition at one particular thought. His pupils dilate in silent wonder as he rifles through his memories, and Gon can hardly find a reason to look away from such a sight.

“The Zaoldyks—my family—are exactly what you think. Criminals. Practitioners of the underworld. Dark wizards. All of those labels attached to the Zaoldyk name. To this day I can’t think of a single person who automatically thinks that I’ll rip out their throat—hah, I guess that’s nothing to really blame, though.”

He grins crookedly at the darkness in his words.

“Anyway, my younger siblings can’t practice magic and aren’t _blessed_ , as my parents would say.” He snorts at this word and kicks a lone pebble in their path. “My older brother is one of the most prolific warlocks in the Four Kingdoms. I won’t go into detail about him, but he had me stationed in Zebeniah in the far east to learn in secrecy. He was paranoid that my powers would be deemed too valuable to ignore in the royal eye.”

Gon frowns at this. “You were taught secretly?”

He’d never heard of such a thing. Mages who were allowed to practice very light traces of magic were usually geared towards healing wounds and using very limited elemental magic to repair damaged territories. Mages with powers like the Zaoldyks were no longer permitted to practice their craft; the idea of there being some sort of secret school in another territory, far from the King’s own forces, was almost too farfetched to think.

Yet, the way Killua tells his story seems so believable, and he’s not sure why. There's no magic in his words, no spell dressing his syllables and commanding further attention from Gon.

“Yeah. You think that they would let a wizard with _my_ abilities out loose on the Four Kingdoms? Hell, if I wasn’t contained there, I would’ve killed a lot more people. Too many to count, probably.”

He seems oddly proud of this, yet the distant tremor in his voice betrays him.

Gon tilts his head to the side, searching him. “I don’t really believe you.”

This catches the mage off-guard. Killua whirls towards him and glares.

“You don’t believe _what_? Everything I’ve said is fact, you idiot. You could read it in books, dating all the way back to my ancestors who practice tainted magic. Some people even believe that we’re somehow direct descendants of the Celestial Dragons, but other than my grandpa—” he stops, immediately wiring his jaw shut. “I’ve said enough.”

Gon shakes his head. “No, no, Killua, I believe _that_ part!” He grins slightly at the surprised flush that colors the mage’s pale, pale skin. “I don’t think you’d be willing to kill all those people when given the chance. In an alternate reality, even, I don’t think you would. Something just tells me you wouldn’t.”

Killua blinks owlishly. “Alright. You’re already forgetting who you’re talking to.”

Gon grins despite the irritation on his prisoner’s face. “O- _kay_ , if you say so.”

“Don’t patronize me.” Then, the mage clicks his tongue, pondering. “What, you actually think that an alternate reality is even worth talking about?”

“You answered my question, didn’t you?” Gon is relentless in his smirks, glancing every now and then to observe just how angry and irritated the mage prisoner has become over the span of only a few minutes. Even in the blanket of shadows enveloping the forest, the mage’s stark-white hair is prominent and almost like a beacon of sorts. Gon edges closer to Killua, who raises an eyebrow in slight confusion. “So, what happened in the east? At the place where you learned how to hone your magic?”

The Zaoldyk musters a small, amused grin, and looks forward with a brief chuckle. “I dunno, Courier. Think you owe me an answer to a question, now. I’ve been doing all the talking.”

The courier’s heart flips at the change in tone, the dramatic shift from hostility and irritation to a slight playfulness that coils in the air as thickly as any rope. He clears his throat, covering his mouth with one balled fist to prevent his smile from breaking out into the shadows. He knows that the mage is trying his best to enjoy himself, but the fact that Gon has been successful so far in allowing him to do so…

“’Kay. That’s fair.”

Gon zeroes in on the path in front of them. The trees are beginning to part, massive trunks swayed and twisted as if frozen in some contorted, whimsical dance. Leaves brush over their shoes, the breeze growing thicker and colder. A slight chorus of ripples can be heard from their vantage point in the woods.

A brook should be close, Gon assumes. Just a few hundred yards down the grassy slopes in which he and Killua are scaling.

“We’re getting close to some kind of water source, at least.”

The courier lopes the small pot over his shoulder and trudges forward, momentarily forgetting that he’s ruled himself to step behind the mage.

Killua seems surprised at this as well, watching the slender, taut muscles in his forced companion’s back shift and roll while he moves over the small cliffs. Gon can feel the mage’s gaze burrowing into his skin, and curiosity probes him to glance over his shoulder and watch the prisoner with one eyebrow risen.

Killua bristles at the stare and immediately ducks his head. Gon can detect the slight flushing in his skin, though it’s hard to trace in the shadows. He smirks and shakes his head, then stares through the outcropping of the woods and listens intently for the babbling creeks and brooks—

“Courier.”

Gon stiffens and turns back to the mage. He expects to see him curious, to see him opening his mouth to finally ask his chosen question, but no, the prisoner is undoubtedly prepping for some sort of confrontation.

His entire body has stiffened, his strands of hair becoming more pronounced as if struck by lightning sparks, his eyes wild and searching. Endangered.

He’s bristling from head to toe as if he’s being scoped out by a predator.

Then, Gon freezes. He follows the mage’s gaze to the top of the cliffs, just yards above their head, where a dark shape has materialized beneath the light of the moon.

It stands with thick, thunderous haunches, its fur black and striped with patches of moss and stone, a brutal combination of the natural breath of the forest creatures and predators and the undergrowth in which they prowl. Its moistened lips peel back to reveal a mouthful of sharp yellow teeth, canines protruding over the wolf jaws, bushy tail swaying back and forth as the body of a panther rears on its haunches.

A growl resonates through its thick, cavernous throat, vibrating through the slopes and traveling up Gon’s spine in a liquefied current.

Gon's eyes briefly flicker to Killua, who’s attention is now glued to the creature sniffing them out.

Then, its eyes widen. Twin pools of molten lava and burning gold.

“Killua,” Gon says quietly.

Instantly, the mage stiffens, not daring to move from the curious beast’s wandering gaze.

“ _Run_.”


	4. In a Dark Wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killua and Gon need to find some way to survive in the midst of a terrifying creature stalking them. And even then, Gon is still full of surprises...

_“Run_.”

The word registers slower than his heartbeat.

Killua’s hands ball into fists in his manacles, the slow, menacing glare of the creature staring into their souls sweeping between the two of them.

He recognizes the glare of a predator, the roaring of blood in his ears at the sensations of delight and abating fear in being cornered with only a handful of options ready.

His muscles twitch. He _should_ run. The courier is almost completely defenseless, his eyes glistening like two oceans of churning scorched honey, glaring into the creature’s own menacing, mangled features as if he’s on equal level with it.

No matter how strong or quick this lapdog to King Meruem may be, he would last maybe ten seconds at most once this creature was able to snap its jaws around his neck.

Gon snaps his head towards Killua, a vein popping in his temple.

He’s furious.

“ _Killua_ , get _out of here_!”

The mage blinks, and snaps out of his stupor. The wind rushing through the leaves, the trickle of the nearby streams twining and weaving into distorted crystalline pools attacking his eardrums like clockwork. He’s able to taste the staleness of the night breeze, and feel the curious glint of the creature’s stare as it studies its chosen prey. He glances at Gon, perplexed.

 _This guy_ , he thinks, _is the stupidest person I’ve ever met._

Gon would not stand a chance against a creature like this.

“You need my help, Courier! I’m not going anywhere!”

Gon’s brow furrows and he dares to take an extra step. The creature then howls—a deathly, shattering screech that tears through the forest in an invisible blade—as it rears on his haunches, and leaps off the rocky slope.

Gon yells and dives for Killua, pushing both him and the mage over the cliff side and into a tumble of underbrush below them. The clustered pebbles and minerals plunge into their backs as they roll, grass blades whisking their faces and branches whipping their exposed skin. Killua can hardly grasp what’s happening, startled at the closeness of the courier, his _body_ —strong, warm, lean and toned beneath those traveler’s garments—and the calloused hands clutching his shoulders.

_Why are you protecting me?_

The impact of the third slope from the cliff where they stood knocks the breath out of them. Gon rolls off of the mage, coughing into the grass. Killua desperately brings his manacles up to him, whirls on his knees, and shoves them under the courier’s surprised expression. The shackles glow with concealed power beneath the moonlight, and even with the creature surely hounding them from above, Killua knows this is their only chance.

“Courier, get these off!”

Gon rears back, flicking his eyes from Killua’s face to his conjoined, constrained hands. He shakes his head. “I can’t do that.” 

“We’re about to get _killed_ and then you won’t have a prisoner to take back! Hell, you won’t even make it out of this forest! Do you honestly fucking think that whatever that beast is looking for, that it’ll just let you mosey on out of here with even the skin on your back?”

He bites his tongue to keep his anger in check, glancing over the courier features.

Gon pinches the bridge of his nose and briefly glances up the stones, his gaze dancing over the smoothened cliffs and bristling trees.

“If I remove your shackles, won’t the magic attract the beast?”

Killua blinks and frowns. He didn’t expect the courier to actually know that particular detail about supernaturally conjoined creatures.

Animals that suffered from corrupted, dark natural magic in forest areas and even mountain territories would often suffer through forced connections and growth with plants and other creatures.

The predator hunting them clearly displayed the pelt of a wolf and maybe some kind of panther, but the fur was sprouted throughout with pebbles ingrained in its jaws, its toes… even moss and bits of leaves traveling in organized patterns along its spine and rugged fur.

Creatures formed from magic were automatically attracted to magic as a result. It was true that the mage would become the prime target of the creature’s interests as soon as the shackles would release.

But he was powerful, a mage of the Zaoldyk bloodline. He knew what he was capable of and had the record to prove it; he was sentenced to death for his bloodletting crimes for good reason.

And yet, the courier seems blind to that notion, only pointing out that he would, indeed, become a beacon for the predator to follow.

Killua's brow burrows. _But, wouldn't that benefit the courier...?_

And, even with this in mind, if they were, indeed, separated long enough, Killua would have a chance of escaping without question.

These woodlands were dense, massive, and woven through with dark, strenuous magic that he doubted Gon would be able to sense, even with his surprisingly sharp nose that directed them in interesting routes on the first day of traveling.

“Why does that matter?” Killua's jaw tightens.

Gon admonishes him with a furrowed brow and a new ray of darkness coloring his amber eyes.

“We’re traveling together. We’re supporting each other. I’m not going to abandon you.” Gon shakes his head. “That wouldn’t be right. You’re not meant to die here.”

Killua’s chest tightens. His breath hitches, unable to let his insults successfully leave his tightly clenched mouth.

What else is there to say? The courier wants to keep him alive? For what reason?

Gon doesn’t seem like the type of person to enjoy watching his subordinates suffer, which will undoubtedly happen once they reach the execution block in the Imperial Capitol. There will be no escape once they reach those walls, once they separate and proceed to their ill-fated crossroads.

“And if I abandoned _you_?” Killua snorts. Despite the truth in his words, the slight hesitation that holds back his tone stands out sharp and clear to his companion.

Gon stares into his eyes, shrugs, and twists his body to face the cliffs from which they fell. The creature is surely following them, prowling amongst the stones and sniffing them out.

They had ten minutes at most to escape, and if Gon didn’t release him…

“I don’t think you would,” says Gon. He searches Killua’s face, as if probing for any signs of trickery or dishonesty. Killua steels his frown and refuses to back away from the sharp aches building in his temples.

He wants to scream and order Gon to remove his shackles, but it seems all the more pathetic with how powerless he is without the influence of his magic. He was surprised, at first, how he hadn’t wanted to strike Gon down where he stood with a bolt of lightning if he had the ability to do so, but in this moment that very idea is becoming much more tempting.

“You,” growls Killua, “make _no sense_.”

Gon stands up and calmly brushes down his trousers. Killua remains on the ground, glaring harshly into the soil and ruined tufts of mud and grass.

The wind has turned quiet, distant in its tremors as they ripple along his shoulders. He inhales, tastes the cleanliness in the air, finding it difficult to believe that a harsh creature like the one stalking them is able to exist in a woodlands territory as pleasant and relaxing as this one.

“Hey, Killua.”

The mage snorts. “What?”

“Have you ever hunted before?”

Killua raises an eyebrow. Gon is staring up the cliffs, his gaze blank and yet, focused. As a walking pillar of contradictions, the look should not surprise Killua as much as it does, but it gives him some feeling of understanding as to what his traveling companion could be aiming for.

He would think that the courier had hunted in the past, given his clear attachment to the countryside and understanding of traipsing these forestlands in general.

“No. I wasn’t allowed to,” he says calmly.

Gon nods. “We shouldn’t kill it.”

Now, this surprises Killua.

He rolls his eyes and brings himself to his feet, annoyed that he can’t brush the dust and mud off his clothes with his constrained wrists. He turns to Gon with steely blue eyes.

“And why not, may I ask?” he drawls out.

Gon has the nerve to actually _smirk_ at him, as if he knows an answer to an incredibly difficult equation that the mage hasn’t even been able to visualize yet. The courier wags his finger in the air, his teeth glistening like a string of pearls.

“Because, it’s not after us. It just wants food. So, we just need to leave bait for it and it’ll leave us alone.”

“What do you mean it’s _not after us_?” If he could, he would have smacked himself in the face just to be entirely sure whether or not he was currently dreaming. Then again, he doubted his subconscious would be able to conjure up a strange, oddball country boy like Gon. “It’s a predator, Courier. Of course it’s after us. You said so yourself! It wants food, and right now _we’re_ the _food_ that it _wants_.”

Wasn’t _Gon_ supposed to be the one with hunting experience?

Clearly he understood survivalist strategies and instinctive ways of caring for himself. He looked like had braved a hundred storms in the wilderness and dozens of similar monsters to this one before, so why would he even need Killua's help? As far as the mage was concerned, his forced companion was perfectly capable of handling this conflicting situation on his own accord.

“I’ve dealt with animals much bigger and stronger than this one. A lot of the time it’s just a misunderstanding.” Gon shrugs and musters a half-smile. “But it was smelling you. I could tell from looking at it. That’s why I told you to run.” He then stares at Killua. “Why _didn’t_ you run?”

Killua blinks. 

_Fight or flight. Instincts. It's a very human thing, idiot. You should know this._

How else could he have reacted? The instincts that propelled his limbs to remain still in place, as if struck with paralysis, was a sensation that he had come to know for many years.

Dark, phantom memories linger in the back of his mind, probing his brain in nearly painful zaps of lightning he would rather forget.

Firmly, he shakes his head, groaning.

Another headache pulses, thrumming. Echoing.

“It surprised me, that’s all,” he mutters.

He doesn’t know what else to say. Maybe he doesn’t have an answer that pleases either of them. He’s not even sure why the courier bothers to care about his well-being at all; he’s just cargo to deliver to his death, to be removed from the map with little recognition brought to him other than his inexcusable crimes and deadly reputation.

“It’s coming.”

Killua doesn’t even have time to ask how Gon could possibly hear anything related to the creature stalking them.

Before he realizes what’s happening, Gon has grasped his forearm, and has begun pulling him in the opposite direction on the slopes. Soon, the two of them begin sliding and gliding over smoothened stones and patches of moss and vines twisting and thriving over the rock beds.

The silence enveloping the forest is wistful and calm, embracing the two lone males as they traverse the shadows and avoid the instant glares of the night stars and the burning white moon.

The trees grow thicker, longer and leaner the farther they run. Killua’s heart speeds up and leaps in his ribcage, grabbing his attention every other second as he forces himself to remain attached to the courier’s side.

He hates being dragged around as if he has no authority, but there is no chance that he’ll be able to escape with Gon’s surprising awareness and the fact that they’re both being chased by some terrifying animal.

“Where are we going?” asks Killua.

They stop, Gon just barely panting as he scans the vicinity, as if searching for another threat in their midst. He releases Killua’s forearm, the mage blinking owlishly towards the courier and glancing out into the ravine, where a stream has babbled and spread into a brook forking between collapsed stones and logs.

“Well, if it’s been following us, we can show it to its new hunting ground,” says Gon.

Killua snorts. “Right. It’ll just drop its interest in us and go ahead.”

“Animals are instinctive first, and violent second. That’s what Aunt Mito had taught me.” Gon nods at his own words, as if needing to affirm his suspicions. Killua shakes his head, unsureness creeping into his stomach and twisting what’s left of his awareness in a tight, icy embrace.

“Courier,” says Killua, “you have to take these shackles off.”

Gon doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are trained on the stream, watching as the occasional silver fish leaps out of the water and catches the glare of the moon.

“Nope. Can’t do that.”

Killua’s fists clench. “Moron, we’re both going to get killed and probably eaten—”

“You’re wrong, Killua.”

He’s irritatingly calm. Killua holds his breath, and watches as the courier reaches into his utility belt and pulls out several small vials of some dust-like substance, along with a wooden capsule.

“I’ll be the only one getting out of this alive if that happens. So, I can’t do that.” 

Gon then extends the device in his hands, the sound of twisting gears mirroring the clinking of horse’s hooves as it springs into an entirely new item that resembles a contorted slingshot. He wraps the extended leather binding around his wrist and uncaps one of the glass vials.

Killua suppresses the clearly logical argument he has prepared to reason with his transporter, but finds that he’s more curious in what Gon is doing. He’s never seen a device like the one he’s carrying, with its slim, polished rosewood and wiry build.

It appears useful as a tool of sorts, for trackers in the wilderness.

Gon holds the emptied vial between his teeth, spilling the sand into his opposite hand. With his thumbs, he rolls the grains into balls, as if somehow molding sand into clay and then another solid substance entirely.

Killua has never seen anything like this performed outside the realm of magic.

Slowly, he comes closer to Gon, narrowing his eyes onto the other’s stiffened hands, his fingers careful and pointed as they maneuver the sand into dozens of tiny pellets.

He blinks in awe, not even daring to look Gon in the eye to glimpse over some smug expression he’s sure the courier is wearing at this moment.

He doesn’t realize how close he’s come to the courier, how he’s knelt on the ground on equal level with Gon as he focuses on his current task. The amount of focus and practice being pushed into the minute practice Gon is enacting rattles Killua’s curiosity, even though he’s not sure where this same curiosity is coming from.

“Killua?”

The mage snaps out of his daze and jerks his head back. He flicks his eyes from Gon’s amusingly bright features to the way his fingers are handling the strange moldable sand substance. He glances away, annoyed at the heat crawling up his neck and surely flushing his pale cheeks.

“How are you doing that? Is that supposed to help?” He almost curses himself for even asking.

The barriers he’s crossed already in conversation with this oddball former stranger has already made him incredibly uncomfortable.

Yet, Gon’s lips twitch into a grin despite it all. “Yeah. It’s sand from the Firestone Island beaches. My dad left it for me in a supply case when I was little, and I take little samples with me everywhere for emergencies. There’s only a limited amount left back at my cottage, so for this trip I wanted to bring more than usual.” He shrugs. “My aunt never liked it when I carried it around, even as a boy. She didn’t think it would help me down the road, but because the sand is durable, you can change it into bullets if you don’t have ammunition.”

Killua’s eyebrows raise to his hairline.

 _That’s…_ He shakes his head, unbelieving. _Kind of brilliant…_

“It’ll help with driving away the beast when it finds us. So, we’ll just have to figure out a way to distract it when it gets here.”

Killua tilts his head. “You came up with all that by yourself?”

Gon shrugs, and, in that instant, winks at Killua.

The mage’s jaw drops, and he shuts it quickly before the courier can properly absorb what’s just occurred.

“There’s still a lot you don’t know about me.” Gon sticks his tongue out in a playful gesture, and at this point, the mage has no idea how to respond.

It’s almost as if the roles they’ve been given have turned into nothing but blurred lines. And yet, as the prisoner, Killua should be the one hopeful for that development as an extra step forward, as another inch towards an escape.

He knows what he’s capable of doing, how intelligent he is and how formidable he can be in the midst of combat. If the shackles were released, he could strike down the beast and escape in mere seconds, yet the courier was determined to not only keep him manacled, but to lure the beast away rather than kill it.

The dangers that follow both of their plans are stubbornly ingrained in their minds, and Killua hates the amount of power that his transporter holds over him.

Then, he sees it.

As does Gon.

The both of them stiffen in the shadows, watching as another shape materializes in the darkness. The creature is scouting through the bracken, its heavy paws crushing twigs and snapping up leaves in its jaws. Saliva drips from its sharp yellow teeth, easily identifiable with the brief rays of starlight slipping through the canopies of intertwined leaves overhead.

Gon slowly latches one of the pellets onto his slingshot device, and pulls it back with the expert eye of what Killua could envision to be the practice of a marksman.

_Concentrate._

Killua shakes his head with a growl and glances over Gon’s calculated form, watching as the country-born courier pulls back the slingshot, and releases.

Instantly, the makeshift bullets strike the creature in one eye.

The beast rears back on its haunches, an earsplitting howl slicing through the night.

Gon latches another bullet into the slingshot and pushes his back towards Killua, who shifts uncomfortably at the proximity.

He looks around him, and his eyes widen.

Just a few yards away, another strikingly similar beast crawls towards them from within the trees.

His heart drops, and in that instant he leans towards Gon, keeping his voice low and harsh and as bone-chillingly acidic as possible.

“It travels in _packs_ , Courier,” he says. “You need me to help you.”

Gon releases another sand-made stone. The beast is struck successfully yet again, and this time, it searches blindly in the shadows, its large yellowish eyes confused and gleaming. Killua braces his wrists, desperately pulling his instincts to the surface and hoping that some form of alternative willpower will allow his magic to overcome his shackles, but nothing is happening from his efforts.

“Killua—”

“We’re both going to die, you idiot—”

Then, Killua brightens. He glances down at his shackles, and this time, while the beasts are distracted, Gon turns to him sharply with his mouth open, preparing for another lecture. Yet, the Zaoldyk mage is faster, and his voice becomes firmer the instant he allows himself to speak.

“Unlock one shackle, then. If you’re so paranoid about this whole thing, release just one and let me strike them down. It’ll only continue to grow and we’ll _both_ become monster fodder.”

Gon blinks. It’s almost as if he doesn’t even have to think about it, because his eyes brighten as well and Killua can hardly believe just how different this facial expression is to the very stern one that insisted he could not unlock his bindings.

“ _Oh_ , that’s really smart! I didn’t think of that!”

Honestly, if Killua could move his hands, he would’ve dragged both of them down his face in misery at this point. He can’t believe who he’s stuck with, but he’ll have to moan in annoyance about those matters later.

He watches as the beasts sniff through the darkness, their eyes sharp upon finding their scents.

Killua desperately holds out his wrists, glaring between the two monsters and wondering just how easy it will be to dispatch of them both without harming the forest in the process.

Gon pulls out the key from his belt, and lodges it into one of Killua’s shackles.

The Zaoldyk’s heart speeds up, rapidly riding on the newfound wave surging through his senses. The utter euphoria of being released (at least halfway) from his temporary imprisonment strikes him.

In that instant, once the metal clasp releases, he jolts to his feet, inhales, and relishes in the traces of energy coursing through his veins and illuminating his veins a bright blue beneath his skin.

Gon jumps to his feet and leaps back several yards, his slingshot ready, muscles coiled like a taut spring and eyes focused entirely on the beasts.

He’s chosen to have his back turned to the half-released prisoner, the both of them glaring in opposing directions.

Killua smirks. He holds back a laugh at the easy power flowing through his body, pulsing in numb threads in the right side of his arm, his leg, his toes. It’s uneven, and incredibly dangerous, to enact any type of magic when the entire body isn’t given the same amount of release.

Yet, he can hardly bring himself to care with how wonderful and elating it feels to have some sense of authority return to him as easily as the turning of a key.

His aura pulses in the air. He knows it’s stronger than normal, returning to him as if kept behind prison bars, showering his thoughts and conscience with images and chants of ancient spells he could only practice properly when allowed to.

In the middle of a dangerous woodland forest, surrounded by bloodthirsty creatures with only his oddball transporter as company, he has the perfect method of escape.

Only one shackle being released means he’s still begrudgingly connected to the courier, yet with how quickly Gon had decided to release him, and how easily he'd chosen to turn his back to Killua, the mage had to wonder just how stupidly brave or bravely stupid the other male was.

 _This isn’t the time to think about that_ , Killua thinks.

The beasts step back several paces, sniffing the ground and as tremors form in the earth.

Killua’s garments ruffle in the rising wind, waking energy coiling around his arms and spreading through his chest in heavy, deafening waves.

“You picked on the wrong mage, _beasts_.”

Killua knows that the courier will be furious if he strikes down these creatures, but in this moment, it was kill or be killed.

And he would rather die as a false martyr of dark history on a royal execution block than leave the world as food for a dangerous predator.

“ _Scioperus_ ,” he begins, the words trailing along his tongue like some addictive, sugary poison, “ _fulmine_ ,” he continues, waving his hand around his shoes, “ _mortune immediatos_.”

Light gathers in contorted lumps, static bolts rising in the earth and singing his fingertips, the rolling ridges traveling like spastic worms over his nails.

He can feel Gon’s unwavering stare burning into him, even when only half of his power has returned. His lips stretch wide across his mouth, mirthful and dangerous.

The force of electricity roars in his blood and becomes one with half of his soul, half of his aura. Half of his flesh and blood and heart.

The beasts whimper and shrink back from him, but he doesn’t care.

The spell has already been cast.

He rears back his fist, plunges his front heel into the grinding stone-laden earth, and watches as he punches the air. Lightning bursts from his fingers and strikes the creatures in a broken chain, both of their howls scorching the formerly quiet night air. Their screeches turn distorted and misplaced, as if they wandered with good intentions into an ill-fated realm.

The beasts wrestle and turn about in layers of tearing muscle and fur, their pelts becoming blindingly white and blue beneath the force of his attack. Their skeletons and organs shine bright as day between strikes, their jaws unfurling and snapping in repeated rhythm.

Killua wants to watch them writhe in further agony and collapse to the ground in the heaps of blood and crumpled flesh that they were meant to be, devoid of life and without meaning.

They shouldn’t have attacked them, shouldn’t have bothered chasing after them—

“ _Killua_!”

The mage jolts his head back at the sound.

He can barely make out Gon’s shocked expression at the corner of his eye, but the way the courier’s form is trembling suddenly tells Killua that there is more to what he’s doing than he originally thought.

He braces himself further, pushing more and more energy into his attack—

“ _One of them is a mother_! Don’t kill her! She—her babies are still in there!”

_What?_

Killua blinks. He glances to the other beast that had appeared second, its belly becoming just as illuminated with electricity as the rest of its body. Its resilience and strength surprises him slightly, but in this moment he notices just how swollen the creature’s stomach is, how the outlined forms of growing cubs inside are being struck with his attack with nearly just as much ferocity as the mother.

Then, the spell’s incantation leaves him. As if some ethereal force snapped it fingers, his power drops.

He exhales, collapsing to his knees. His body is shaking, drained, _trembling_ , the numbing sensations of magic quickly leaving his body in invisible currents.

He can barely bring himself to lift his head, knowing that the monsters have taken these spare moments to leave with their tails between their legs. He can hear their footsteps, heavy and thunderous in the shadows, their whimpers carrying under the curtain of twilight like distorted music.

_I can’t…_

He gulps. His throat is parched. His head is spinning.

He can’t even read the details of the stones and blades of grass beneath his quaking body. He’d gone for too much too soon; there were little options he could reach for when spread halfway, even with magical spells he himself had created many years ago.

_Dammit. I can’t even see…_

He falls forward, grimacing at the cool grass flicking his cheeks. He can barely make out the profile of the courier as his world becomes swallowed in black.

* * *

When he awakens, the first stretch of dawn buries crisscrossing clouds and periwinkle skies into his struggling conscience.

The air is gentle and sweet, almost citrusy as it dances over his lips and careens through his nose. He’s resting against something… soft—soft and light, something gentle and airy, like a bed of swan feathers.

He grimaces at the aches swirling in his back, his muscles constricted and stretched tight from the amount of magic he’d forced into one side of his body, the only side where it was allowed.

He realizes, with a slight jolt, that his torso is freshly bandaged, one half of his shirt removed and carefully stitched to fit only one side. The bandages are expertly placed, clearly with a trained hand, a cool, minty liquid sliding over his skin. He can only assume it’s an ointment of some kind, one he’s most likely seen before.

His teeth grit, watching as his right hand struggles to even flex one finger. He knows it’ll take days to recover from the force he’d placed his body under. Magic depleted from users just as easily as any other type of activity would.

Sprinting up a mountain would have been less taxing.

He adjusts, glancing into the wide, open clearing. The courier’s wagon is stationed off to the side. Their two horses are safe, nestled and feasting in their respective buckets filled with wheat and chopped apples.

He blinks down at his lap, where, past his newly-shackled wrists, lie four slices of raisin bread and an apple.

His head pounds with a slight headache. Then…

 _The courier._ Where is he?

As soon as he turns his head to the right, he spots him. The courier is staring straight ahead of him, his hands tightly clenched and knees bobbing up and down in silent, controlled patterns. Sweat glistens on his temple, his gaze a heated amber beneath the gentle rays of the sun. He’s donned in a sleeveless white cotton shirt, his trousers washed and dried from their escapade in the deep woods the night before.

“Gon?”

Killua’s not sure why he’s even asking. Why he’s even talking. Yet, he’s compelled to. Even more so, he wants to ask if the courier is alright, if he managed to get through the entire ordeal the previous night unscathed.

From what he can see, Gon seems perfectly fine, but the tenseness in his strong back and tightness in his disposition tells him otherwise.

Gon blinks and, as if waking up from an entirely different dream, grins too broadly for the mage to believe it.  His lips spread to both sides of his cheeks, so deep and strong that his dimples become even more pronounced than the freckles peppering his nose.

It’s a smile the mage hasn’t seen before, completely devoid of any playfulness or coyness, but absolutely _glowing_ with…

Killua’s heart skips.

 _Relief_.

“Killua! You’re okay!”

Killua sputters and glances away. Why is it so strange to even be having such easy conversations with this foolish person? Then again, he was willing to trust the courier in return, despite what would happen at the end of this journey, and the fact that Gon actually came to trust him enough to release him halfway to guarantee their safety made him wonder.

And…

 _Wait_ , he thinks, blinking, _why did I… why did I stop?_

He hadn’t killed the beasts like he had planned. He struck them, and was close to killing them with less than half the speed it would normally take if his whole body was released and allowed to unleash his magic. Then, Gon had pleaded—no, he’d _begged_ for him to stop, because one of the monsters was pregnant and he was killing the unborn cubs alongside their mother.

It was the only time he could remember sparing a target.

_But why?_

“Can you walk?” Gon asks.

Killua shakes his head and stares up at the courier, who seems all too eager to begin moving again. Killua groans, struggling to lift himself up the tree and switching his attention from Gon’s outstretched hands to his breakfast. The mage blinks, unsure how to move when the courier casually—and gently—reaches beneath his arms to hoist him to his feet, using his spare arm to gather the bread slices and apples.

“I-I can move on my own!” Killua snaps, squirming out of the courier’s grip.

Gon lets out a laugh, and the fact that it’s so elated and joyful nearly saps Killua’s annoyance in the fraction of a heartbeat. He can hardly believe how quickly his mood switches, and he’s not sure how to even absorb the way the courier is smiling at him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Gon shrugs. “I had a feeling that you weren’t a bad person.” His grin widens. “ _And_ , I was right!”

Killua rolls his eyes, and even then it cannot convey just how idiotic the courier’s statement is.

“Right. Okay. You can amuse yourself with that idea all you want.”

The courier’s smile evaporates. “Well, you spared those animals. An evil person wouldn’t have bothered to stop the way you did.”

Killua glares at him. “I’m not… sure why I stopped.”

It’s the truth, yet it seems wary of him to admit this out loud, as if he’ll be struck in any moment for even admitting his own thoughts.

“You don’t have to.”

“What kind of logic is that?” Killua growls out.

“My kind.” Gon’s smile is nothing short of humor-filled.

The mage scoffs in disbelief. “You—!” He shakes his head. “You’re impossible.”

Yet, at the sight of Gon breaking into another fit of singsong, genuine laughter, Killua can find no discernible way to describe the gaping leaps in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING THIS STORY SO FAR. All of the kudos, comments, and bookmarks mean the absolute WORLD. This is my favorite chapter so far, and I hope you're enjoying reading this! Please let me know what you think in a comment, whether that's constructive criticism, a question, or anything related to it.
> 
> Any predictions for the next chapter? I dropped some hints in this chapter for what's to come... did you catch them? ;)
> 
> Until next time!


	5. A Place to Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After three weeks of travel, Gon and Killua reach the trading city of Masadora. Yet, new developments pit them at odds against new foes, and Gon finds that not all of his secrets are meant to be kept in the dark. 
> 
> Not even when considering his prisoner.

_Gunfire blasts rattle his ears until he can’t hear anything but bristling static._

_He crouches low to the ground, surveying his surroundings, watching as debris and uniformed soldiers fly at impact. His throat runs dry, adrenaline zipping and sliding through his veins in electric fury, bubbling every thought, every image he’s conjured in his mind to retaliate. There’s nothing for him to see other than the whites of his enemies’ eyes._

_Bodies keep falling._

_S_ _torm clouds gather overhead. Men shout to one another for signals, some familiar, yet most of them not. Limbs dangle like loose gloves, the freshest blood—the life fluids of men and women giving their lives in battle—stain the sweeping curves of jagged stones and filthy soil. There’s something terrifying and exhilarating, being centered on the battlefield, forced into a cramped space masquerading as an element of advantage, as a pinnacle of power. Trenches have never seemed to work expectantly well in the past, though this knowledge apparently flies over the heads of notorious commanders and generals._

_It’s not long before it begins to rain, but Gon is not finished._

_“Hey! Freecss! Get out of there!”_

_Gon blinks through the raindrops. Lightning thrashes violently overhead, scarring and splitting apart the evening sky. He wants to charge forward and attack the other forces head-on, banish the opposing side and watch the bodies of wretched, demonic creatures collapse into pools of their own blood—_

_“Freecss!”_

_Gon turns, just in time to see the black uniform outlining his companion and squadron leader, Commander Kurta. A prodigy, with sleek muscles and fair skin and cropped blond hair, his eyes transforming from stark black to vicious scarlet when the time is right. Not one drop of magical blood runs in his veins or pumps vengeful force into his heart, but his abilities far surpass that of a normal human when the calendar aligns. When the moon cycle is just right._

_But Commander Kurta’s stoic façade has completely shattered. He is grasping his hair, pulling at the strands, screaming to the high heavens, his irises burning like fire. Gon cannot move, cannot grasp what he’s seeing—he’s fourteen and excited to be fighting with his remarkable talent and natural ability, but seeing his one friend in the squadron like this almost makes him regret being here at all._

_Almost._

_“Kurapika, let me help you—”_

_“Get out of here, Freecss! Move! The Ants are coming forward and we won’t have a choice!” Kurapika points at other soldiers, some screaming in agonizing pain. “You’re not going to avenge anyone if you don’t keep moving!”_

_Right. Revenge._

_Gon, for the briefest second, flashes to an image of a tall, gangly female creature. Silver hair sweeping across her shoulders. A military outfit branded with shining gold buttons. Massive, deceptively powerful fingers curling claws in and out on repeat. Her eyes see into his soul, peer past those devastatingly dark depths and scour out something far worse than he would have anticipated before._

_She smiles at him like it’s nothing. Like she hasn’t just committed murder._

_In a flash, he snaps out of this image, turns on his heel, and sprints. His rifle is loose on his back, the mud slushing under his shoes as he runs and runs and runs and doesn’t dare look back to see how Kurapika is faring. He won’t be able to talk to him._

_Probably never again._

_He has one target. Just one._

_“Pitou…”_

* * *

“This the place?”

Killua’s sudden voice shocks Gon out of his stupor. The courier blinks and shakes his head, his hand pausing on the flank of one of the horses, his palm open and empty, covered in saliva. He wonders for a moment if he had gotten distracted feeding the two geldings in the middle of parking them at the stables, but it hadn’t occurred to him that he’d blacked out into his own trial of memories for at least the fifth time during this trip.

Three weeks have passed with the prisoner kept under his guard, and other than their encounter in the shadowed wilds that led to Gon glimpsing the mage’s terrifying power, nothing out of the ordinary transpired between them. The occasional rumor was discussed for the sake of boredom, yet the underlying tension remained thick and palpable, though Gon could easily understand why the mage was feeling this way. He was intended to die as soon as they reached the Imperial Capitol, after all. His blood would stain the podium just as vividly as those stones and manmade trench walls in Gon’s most vivid nightmares.

Gon follows the mage’s inquiring stare to massive, looming cobalt blue walls stretching towards the sky like outstretched witch’s fingers. Spiraling dome-topped roofs reflect the dwindling sunlight, just barely spearing through the clouds overhead. He’s briefly reminded of the gathering storm in his vision, remembering the dull pains in his arms, his legs, his brain as he hurled himself into danger and was scolded time and time again by one of very few people in his lifetime he honestly considered a friend.

“Hey. Courier.”

Gon blinks in realization and smiles sheepishly towards his prisoner. Killua’s eyebrows are risen, his filthy clothes hanging looser than normal. Even from his slouching position on the wagon, he looks more like a typical bored teenager, rather than the tense, hotwired mass murderer Gon had come to expect when they met at the prison fortress.

“Let me guess,” the mage begins with a rather dry tone, “you’ve experienced some sort of hefty trauma here. An ex-lover, maybe? Oh, wait, wait, you’ve been scorned once or twice, I’m sure. People like you always seem to have that kind of backstory. Lots of people would be willing to read that stuff, even mages I know.”

Gon’s lips quirk into a grin. He half-shrugs. “Hm. Let me think. Just how many hearts have I broken?”

The mage actually turns to him in complete, blank shock, his jaw gaping open. Gon bursts into laughter and shakes his head, causing Killua to turn flustered immediately and look away, a deep growl resonating in his chest and careening through his throat. Times like this make Gon wonder, really, if they met in a different time, in a different world… would they have been friends?

“Yes, by the way,” says Gon, grinning, “this is Masadora. I thought we could stop and refreshen our supplies. Also, maybe,” he turns to Killua, the mage pretending to be bored with his shackled wrists supporting his chin. He is gazing at the doors with a furrowed brow, inspecting every nook and crevice burrowed into the entrance. “We should probably get you some new clothes.”

The mage raises one eyebrow. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“Okay, so, first,” says Killua, “what makes you think I would trust your horrendous fashion sense? Second,” he continues, glaring icily towards the courier and becoming even redder at the dreadfully broad smile on the other’s face, “is this some kind of ploy? Some weird way to make the prisoner look halfway presentable for the king before his head gets lopped off?”

Gon laughs. And it’s easy, this time. Sometimes Killua’s mannerisms and stories make him break out into honest guffaws, total moments of relief and nostalgia he hadn’t experienced in a long, long time. The fact that the prisoner he’s taking across the country is the one doing this, however, never seems to bother him.

“I’m not laughing, idiot. I’m totally serious.”

“Look—Killua, all I’m saying is that your rags are withering away. I don’t have enough extra clothes for you. We should just buy you something here.”

“I’m not letting you spend money on me, Freecss.” Killua’s voice has gone lower. He dips his head, turning away from Gon and suddenly finding the sacks of flour on the other side of the wagon to be particularly interesting. “Just go inside and come back out. I’m not going anywhere. Not like I have a choice.”

Gon tilts his head to the side. “Killua, obviously you’re coming with me.”

The blank stare Killua sends him almost makes him laugh again, but something else dwindles in those irises. It sends a sharp chill down his spine, not unlike the glares he’d received in the trenches, listening to Commander Kurta’s calls as they trudged through those storms of violence and despair together. Together, yet alone.

Killua’s gaze is wavering and not at all steadfast. He clenches his jaw, and doesn’t say another word to him. He only nods, already defeated.

Gon’s heart skips. He swallows back the momentary guilt, wondering if he’s taking his teasing of the mage a bit too far. He wonders how Killua will perceive him later in their journey, when they move closer and closer to the fatefully tall, barred iron gates of Antokiba.

Suddenly, he doesn’t want to think about it. Think about losing the sarcastic mage at his side.

 _Just focus_ , thinks Gon.

But for the first time in what seems like years he can’t help but hesitate at his own thoughts.

“So, what, you’re just going to let me walk through there with these rags on and these shackles? Come on, Courier, everyone will panic at seeing me. I’m not exactly hard to miss.”

Gon ponders this with a small hum. “Hm. Yeah. That’s true.” Then, he brightens, and stares at Killua. “What if…” He shrugs. “Heh.”

This grabs the mage’s attention. Killua glances up from rubbing his shackled wrists together and stares. His teeth are gritting, he can tell, judging by the slight protruding of a vein in his forehead, his ivory skin rippling with new perspiration. His shock of silver hair bristles beneath the growing current of wind. Gon watches him silently as the mage ponders, and he decides that he will voice his opinion again. Their one-sided conversations never last long.

“I can let you out of your shackles? Then, that way, you can come with me, and when we find you new clothes you won’t have to stand out as much!”

Killua’s jaw slacks.

Gon’s grin only widens, though. He wags his finger in the air, as if he’s finally come up with the most brilliant plan in the universe. “That’s perfect though! Then you won’t be uncomfortable, and we can just leave afterwards, and you can help me carry stuff back to the wagon—”

“Are you fucking insane? I could easily just bolt the fuck out of here, you know!”

Gon shakes his head. “You won’t, though.”

“I— _hah_?”

“You won’t.”

Gon winks, his grin ever so broad and he knows that it infuriates his traveling companion. Killua’s glare could have easily melted the hearts and minds of anyone else in his vicinity, with or without magic, but Gon was used to it the moment he locked eyes with the breathtaking mage for the very first time. He couldn’t explain how, but that was how it worked from the very beginning, and despite the incredibly dark circumstances he found it oddly fitting to imagine finishing this journey with the mage unbound.

“You’re—” Killua bites his tongue and snarls. “You’re _unbelievable_! I’m convinced you’re not a real person! You’re… you’re some kind of shapeshifter! Just eat my soul already! Be done with it. Honestly. You’re so fucking crazy.”

Gon blinks. Slowly. “Um. Think you would have noticed if I was a shapeshifter, Killua.”

“And why do you keep doing that?”

Gon is not blind to the way Killua has already jumped off the wagon, how he’s come so close to him that the only restrictions are the shackles binding Killua’s wrists that are invisibly attached to the wagon by use of legal magic. He doesn’t even step back, glancing over the ferocious scarlet blossoming across Killua’s cheeks, his neck, his eyelashes fluttering like trembling butterflies against his will—

Heat crawls up Gon’s neck. He smirks to hide the slight shudder spreading through his body at their closeness. They’d been caught being forcibly pressed in tight spaces before, usually when the wagon was lodged between stones and needed two people to push its structure out of the way, or when they encountered trouble in the wilds after those corrupted monsters.

“Keep doing what, Killua?” Gon asks. His back is pressed to the wagon, the mage glaring heatedly into his own eyes from only a few paces off. He knows that if the shackles were removed he would’ve been electrocuted without mercy at this point.

“ _That_!” Killua snarls. “You keep—you keep saying my _name_ , like we’re friends or something.”

Killua simmers down and backs up a few steps.

Gon blinks. _Oh._

Friends?

An awkward silence settles between them. Killua’s shaking, his fists clenched so hard Gon notices the slightest tracing of blood welling between his fingers. His breaths are shuddering and quaking in his chest, though his large, ghostly slate-blue eyes are shimmering with unsureness. With uncertainty and a dozen other emotions that don’t seem to interact well with each other. Some are fighting for clear dominance, and watching this in his expression is so different for Gon, who usually tracks one emotion at a time and can only decipher how he feels in the present moment; he’s aware of this flaw because his own Aunt Mito had told him so many years ago. Years before he served to combat against King Meruem’s conquering army.

“S-so,” the mage begins, desperately trying not to sputter, “don’t. We’re not friends. We…”

“Can’t be?” Gon asks.

He’s surprised at how quiet he’s become, how he’s turning his attention to speaking lower to brush his words along Killua’s. He watches as the mage stiffens, the reluctance in his posture so vivid and powerful it feels as if he’s being weighed down by much more than the conversation combusting between them.

“Forget it.” Killua snorts, and his smile is wry as he acknowledges Gon with a frustrated nod. “Unlock these damn shackles, bastard. I’m only going to follow you in to prove a point.”

Gon’s smile is so wide that Killua’s pupils dilate in shock.

* * *

Gon is not surprised at all that Killua Zaoldyk—the most feared mage in the country, said to have slaughtered five hundred people in one confrontation, said to be impossibly beautiful yet far too dangerous to even consider approaching on marriage, said to boast the power of a thousand lightning storms in one snap of his fingers, said to be evil to the marrow in his bones—had chosen to follow him past the front doors into Masadora with little trouble from the security guards. They didn’t even ask about the cloaked, hooded figure begrudgingly remaining close to the irritatingly bright-smiled courier through the front doors of one of the largest and most profitable cities in the entire kingdom.

The market square is rich with life. Across the sweeping oval of cleaned red sandstone, the shops were bursting with opened coinpurses and fair trade from traveling couriers that were quite different from one Gon Freecss. He smiled broadly in familiarity of this place, absorbing the scenery with keen, Painterly windows displaying an inordinate amount of knickknacks, toys and confectionary goods: pinstriped bags filled with saltwater taffies, cross-stitched dolls with buttons for eyes, folded paper planes soaring from one child to another, lollipops colored bright greens, deep blues and sparkled pinks bigger than Killua and Gon’s faces combined, and many other unique treats that trade off per moon cycle.

Salt and ground gemstones were often sought after during this time of the year, right on the cusp of one winter no one is looking forward to. Customers walk back and forth between shops, some of them eyeing the courier and his companion with equaled interest. Whispers drift into the air like cinnamon spice, vaguely reminding Gon of just how many gossips populate the country.

“Let’s get this over with,” mutters Killua.

Gon frowns at the slight trembling gait of his companion. The mage is shaking from head to toe, his hood barely concealing his features, but there is something else there. His mouth is half-open, drops of sweat beading along his chin, his fists clenched desperately over his ragged, hideously disfigured robes. Gon vaguely recalls one of the guardsmen at the prison fortress ripping into the mage’s robes when he thrust him onto his knees in front of the courier.

“Are you okay?” Gon frowns. “You seem kind of sick—”

“Gods, I’m fine. I’m out of the shackles, aren’t I? I feel absolutely brilliant.” His tone is caught halfway between sarcasm and desperate grasping for truth. Gon’s brow furrows at this, his traveling satchel loose on one shoulder.

“Killua,” he whispers, “I’m serious. We can go see a doctor—”

“Stop _doting_ on me. Seriously.” Killua swallows and struggles keeping his head upright. “It’s… I’ve never been to a city before.”

Gon had already opened his mouth to say something, but then he shuts it at hearing these words. They are so feather-light in weight yet so distinctive in impact that he can’t believe that he’s just now understanding where Killua has been kept. How long he’s been kept in that fortress.

“Is that why you didn’t want to come in?”

“W-Why are you asking me this right now? Ugh, I shouldn’t have said anything. Let’s just get this over with.” His fingers are trembling, tentatively reaching inward to scratch at his palms before he lets them loose again. Static bounces between his fingernails, yet it’s very, very weak.

Gon frowns. _He’s not nearly as strong as he was before._ The shackles clearly still had an effect on Killua, whether the mage wanted to admit it or not. The courier knew that Killua wouldn’t try his magic in any public place, not when his sentence was known across the country and his powers were greatly feared. Having them removed from the city for those reasons or, worse, having both Gon and Killua sent to prison wouldn’t grant anyone favors.

Gon, having watched Killua for many weeks, now, knew what anxious symptoms felt like in comparison; he lived with them every day and hid them like some strangely hypnotic vice, but he kept the truths to himself for good reason. He knew that Killua should have been able to cast magic as easily as before, when he’d saved them both from the monsters in the woodlands.

And still…

“Let’s go grab some food,” says the courier, practically chirping. The mage spares him an agitated look, yet the way he swallows and grimaces tells Gon that he’s correct about at least one thing.

Besides, Killua was even more stubborn than him sometimes when it came to food. The mage had an outrageous appetite when he allowed himself to eat alone, but when it came to Gon wanting to share his food, the other never complied and almost always rejected his advances.

Gon smirks knowingly and nods towards another street, where a long line of casual restaurants and taverns pop out like sore thumbs from the market square. Killua follows his gaze with a sharp squint, hesitant in even the slightest movements.

“… Okay.”

Gon grins. He already knew the answer beforehand. Still, he grabs Killua’s wrist—much to the mage’s squawk of chagrin and surprise—and leads them to one particular tavern with slanted green-tiled roofs and booming, almost strangely bubbled letters framing the front entrance. The window shutters splayed open, window boxes filled to the brim with dozens of rare, pricey flowers.

“ _The Timely Bottle_? What kind of a name is that?” Despite his drawl, Gon can spot the curiosity glimmering Killua’s eyes. He wants to go inside, to see just what a city tavern would be like.

Gon opens the door and scans the vicinity. It’s a rather dark place, with scarce oil lamps hanging from the ceiling and burning like half a dozen firefly jars. Few customers are gathering in the dark, yet the surprisingly rich scent of combined sweets and alcohol assault Gon’s nose in a frenzy. He swallows it in, leads Killua further into the interior, and the mage follows his curious gaze into the area.

The courier releases Killua’s wrist, blinking. “Huh. Don’t remember this place from before.”

The mage turns his head, and he stiffens beside Gon.

“By chance,” whispers Killua, “have you made any enemies in this city, Courier?”

Gon blinks at the sudden question, tapping his chin in thought. “Well, I wasn’t exactly the best customer a few years ago, but I was just a kid then. Traveling with other people. I didn’t really have time to meet with anyone specifically.”

Killua snorts. “Well, those guys at the table,” he gestures with the faintest flick of his head to the booth in question, “keep staring at us.”

Gon glances, and his brow instantly furrows in challenge. A slight exhilaration pumps through him, sending direct messages to his heart and mind: _challenge them. Fight them. What reason do they have to be here?_

Then, Gon scans their clothes. No, these men are not locals to Masadora. Their stances are broad and powerful, clothes ripped along the shoulder blades and arching down their backs. Vivid, curved tattoos of mythological creatures and stark symbols embrace their flesh in scurrying patterns. Dragons. Goblins. Corrupted kings and queens. Fish with razor-sharp teeth. Wyverns. Most of them appeared scruffy and middle-aged. Broad chins. A mix between longer beards and scruffy, stubble-laden chins. Harsh, beady eyes colored in shadows.

“Pirates,” mutters Gon, yet his grin only grows more crooked. More stable.

Killua blinks at him. “Eh? Here?” He raises an eyebrow at the strangers, who are now surveying Gon from top to bottom as if he’s just insulted their birthmothers.

The courier steps forward, his muscles shifting in recoiled preparation, as if sensing the beginning of some kind of confrontation. He can already feel his mind zero ahead and narrow towards his targets; something about them is unwarranted. Unwanted.

Then, they both notice one oddity in the room, aside from the mosaic of incredibly not-normal things that would never be found in a tavern in the middle of the day.

“Where’s the innkeeper?” asks Gon.

The pirates glance at one another and then laugh. Killua snorts and rolls his eyes, stepping forward next to the mage; Gon can feel his companion’s weathered tiredness from only a few inches away. Killua could probably fight and defend himself, but Gon would rather he stay aside and rest if need be.

“He’s… resting, ya nosy brat.”

“Oi, this one thinks he can’ just waltz right in and barge in on a meetin’…”

“Who do ya think ya are, kid?”

One of the pirates stands up, his hulking form barely brushing the ceiling. His yellow, snagged teeth are jutting out of his lips, his dreadlock braids cruising down his back and sweeping above his hips. The tattoos bulging from his thick, mammoth muscles are scratched into his flesh from a painted dagger, he’s sure. Within minutes, several of the pirates have circled around Gon and Killua. Gon remains close to the mage’s side, who seems hesitant with his weakened state.

Judging by how tightly Killua’s fists are clenched and how roughly his teeth are grinding, Gon can tell that his companion is far weaker than both of them had assumed.

“Who’s this?” one of the pirates snorts. “The kid brought a slave ‘er somethin’? What’s with the hood?”

Then, one pirate yanks Killua’s hood back. Gon doesn’t react in time. The courier’s arms are quickly restrained with two of the pirates, a knife quickly brought to his neck. He grimaces and holds back his struggling, remembering the harsh, echoing words of Kurapika Kurta sailing through his mind. Ordering him to remain still in the midst of danger.

Yet, he wasn’t prepared for Killua—one of the most powerful people he’s ever met—to be so currently… immobile. Killua barely struggles when the other remaining pirates hold him back, and the leader’s eyes shift from Gon to Killua with a broadened, gaping expression.

“Well, fuck, if those aren’t eyes like gemstones, lads…” He smirks and comes closer to Killua.

Gon’s heart leaps.

“W-Wait, isn’t he… isn’t that the Zaoldyk heir?!” One of the pirates restraining Gon squeaks out.

The pirate lord snorts. “Apparently he ain’t all he’s cracked up to be. Throw a lightning bolt, eh? I dare ya.”

Nothing happens.

Gon watches Killua, biting his tongue. It’s his fault they’re in this mess, and now…

_What is he doing?_

He doesn’t know why he’s feeling these intense, sudden urges, threads of deepening anger and frustration he hasn’t felt before. The leader has the audacity to grab Killua’s chin, harshly turning the mage’s sweating, struggling face from one side to the other, as if a tool of sorts being inspected before purchase.

Then, the pirate lord kneels down to Killua’s eye level, using the same hand to grab the back of Killua’s head and pull his hair back. Killua snarls and glares calmly, coolly, as a knife is brought to his throat. Gon’s teeth grind and his entire body shakes, slowly beginning to pant out of his mouth, his vision becoming swarmed in spattering red as the pirate completely ignores Gon in favor of his mage companion.

“And what’s a…” the pirate’s eyes slowly, agonizingly, drift across Killua’s neck, “pretty little snowflake like you hangin’ around a weakling like that? I’m sure the crew would love to have ya on our boat, ya little _whore_.”

Killua spits in his face. Static ruptures between his fingers, but the mage shuts his eyes tight in frustration. It’s still not enough.

“Oh,” the pirate sneers, wiping off the saliva with an amused glimmer in his hideously excited face, “I’d hate to maim that lovely face of yours, _mage_ , but if ye cooperate I’ll take ya with us after we kill your friend here. And those eyes, heh… sure we could sell ‘em after I fuck and kill you.”

Then, the pirate lord, in the blink of an eye, is hurled far past the bar facing them, his body slamming into cupboards. Glasses fall and shatter on impact. Killua blinks, shocked and watching, bewildered, as the men restraining him are quickly grabbed and thrown to the other side of the tavern. They roll into one another like sacks of vegetables.

Gon’s fists are trembling. He’s panting. The lights in his eyes have dimmed to merciless black voids. Yet, his veins are rippling with newfound energy, coursing through his body in a way that rivals the essence of magic, yet remains secret to only a few. He can see nothing but the impending deaths of these pirates, his temper far succeeding anything he’s felt in years.

“ ** _Don’t_** ,” he breathes, and he wishes he could know how far away he sounds, how Killua is staring at him as if he’s never seen anything like him before, “ ** _touch Killua_**.”

He sees a thousand images at once. Good people dying because of him. Many faces attached to people once knew and loved. He's not sure where the clouds of rage are coming from, or why they're so fierce now, yet his unbridled anger has reached a point where he cannot see the endgame.

Killua finally finds his voice, but Gon is too far gone.

“Holy shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh? Eh?
> 
> I'm actually not too happy with this chapter, but, that follows the outline, so... mhm. BIG THANK YOU to everyone who's been reading so far! The kudos, comments, bookmarks, everything! It means the absolute world.
> 
> I'm curious to see your thoughts, wonderful readers. Feel free to leave a comment below. 
> 
> Also, love me some Gon Freecss screentime. Our Courier gets his time to shine! Woot woot!


	6. Veins of Liquid Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gon reveals something about himself to Killua, and Killua finds something else out about Gon. A fair trade, no?

_“Kill it.”_

_The command jostles his mind in a twisted, conflicting somersault. Normally such a command would be excusable when his targets were plants or immobile projectiles, sacks of flour shaped into fake targets. Preparatory stigma for the future missions in which he would be required to kill, but the lump swelling large and powerful in his throat is far stronger than even the steady pounding of his heart. He hesitantly listens to the static bolt rummaging in his palms, distracting him, begging to be released, but his instincts fail to match with his conscience._

_He stares into the wide, terrified eyes of the wolf being constrained to the earthy soil. Looming towers of brimstone and wooden support beams overshadow the multiple silhouettes being blanketed in the shadows. He refuses to turn his neck to glance over the tall, languid figure that strolled about as a personification of the moon’s shadows and the bloodlust of past gods. His raven-black hair sweeps above his knees, his eyes void, lifeless, occasionally sparking with impatience like ember-studded charcoal._

_“I don’t want to,” the boy manages to say._

_He’s just turned six, yet the dreaded weight building onto his shoulders and the smoldering, indecipherable glare that the other man sends him from beside the stones would rattle anyone to the bone. He stares at the phantom-like man, his jaw tighter than a few minutes before. He knows he needs to tread carefully._

_“Young Kil, you won’t have a choice when the time comes. Your magic is simply too exquisite to keep hidden from even the forces of nature. This… creature, so to speak, has killed many other beasts. Other smaller animals that were weaker. And you, you are stronger than this animal, with or without your blessings.”_

_The boy turns to the wolf, but can’t bear to even picture his electric bolts wringing life out of its beautiful golden irises. It huffs and writhes in its constraints, pelt snagged with brutal metal trappings and jaw clamping and snarling over wires. His heart leaps for this creature, and he’s not sure why he can bring himself to care when he’s been so carefully taught to avoid such feelings._

_“It kills and eats to survive,” says the boy, shaking his head, “I wouldn’t be killing it to survive. It would just be dead.” With his magic, he wants to add, but understanding the greedy tremors snaking through his veins and pumping unforeseen power into his blood makes him want to vent onto something. But, this wolf shouldn’t be the one to suffer for it. He’s wanted to turn his frustrations and built up anger to the man watching over him like a hawk, each and every day, morning and night, his eyes burrowed into his back as if he would vanish._

_He wished he could._

_“Magic-wielders are susceptible to power, and easily channel and suppress emotions. This is what separates us, young Kil, from the typical human.” At this, the languid man waves his arm over the wolf, and before the boy can react, it begins convulsing and whimpering in what the boy can only assume to be pain. It clenches its teeth, body wriggling and struggling in its bonds. The much older man flexes his knuckles, shadowy tendrils leaking from his fingers like misty oil._

_“Don’t!” says the boy, but it’s too late. The wolf’s life drains from its eyes as soon as the magic recedes, and like every other living, breathing target he’d been requested to kill, the boy can only glance over the wolf’s corpse and bite his tongue in anguish._

_“You are blessed with these powers to kill, and become the strongest in our bloodline. It is simply what your role is, Kil, and I will see to it that you reach those ends. Perhaps I won’t even need to earn your permission to fully allow it.”_

_The boy says nothing after that. He stares into the film-covered wolf’s eyes, memorizing each minor detail that once breathed life into those smoldering golden orbs._

* * *

 

 

* * *

_Arcane._

Killua’s heart rushes in distorted rhythm behind his bones. He struggles to regain any sense of composure, listening to the heavy slamming of flesh onto splintered wood, of heavy breathing and disgruntled panting as one force crashes into another and sends both hurtling over their limits. He listens to the best of his abilities, unable to process the flickering of the oil lamps and candles illuminating the tavern, or the sweat slicking the courier’s skin as his arms ripple with visible orange and red, burning lines.

He wasn’t ready to enter the city as soon as the shackles were removed, but he was adamant beforehand to not say a single word to the courier. He hated being in the presence of countless people, feeling their stares burrowing into his shoulders, his back, the faint wisps of silver hair that escaped from beneath is hood. He despised the way his chest curled and his palms sweat when he couldn’t direct his attention away from countless wandering stares, from people he never wanted to become associated with, and matters only turned worse when he failed to summon any strength from his previous escapade.

 _Such an idiot,_ he thinks, mulling between the chaos happening in the present and the annoyance he recognizes from losing his ability to summon his powers. Magic traveled in wavelengths through his body, bubbling within his soul and physical form in separate entities. Separate, yet intertwined, sensations that delivered his consciousness to an entirely new level of reality, but he wasn’t able to decipher just how different those worlds were.

When he felt the serpentine quality of electricity bounce back and forth over his fingernails, bubbling in his bloodstream and soaring to his highest plane of thinking, he knew he couldn’t be wrong. He expected to feel that same euphoric rush as soon as the shackles were released, but the only weight he’d received was one full of weakness.

He’d stumbled into the city barely conscious, struggling to even count correctly when he struggled balancing both sides of his body at once. He’d sacrificed too much energy in the woodlands several weeks prior, and he believed, at one point, that he had recovered, but there was nothing more for him to think about or believe when he could barely recognize the faintest possible humdrum of suppressed lightning around his lungs.

And now, he can barely support himself next to a table soiled with alcohol, watching, mesmerized and jaw hanging loose, as the courier completely dismantles each and every pirate with reckless abandon. The other teen’s muscles are taut and rippling with blooming orange, red and blistering white tendrils, looping beneath his skin and pulsing with extreme speed towards his curled, bloodied knuckles and causing his fists to glow with fiery energy.

Killua’s tongue is dry and he can hardly think straight, but he recognizes those sensations. He’d studied them beneath the eyes of his own warlock brother, coasting through ancient languages roughly translated for his convenience, looking through tales of demigods and magic-born men who called magic out of some emotional turmoil within them. Abilities that were not akin to magic but far more destructive in nature, but these users were even more uncommon than casters, much rarer than any illusionist, warlock, mage or wizard Killua had ever come into contact with.

Now, upon seeing the courier—of all people, of course this crazy bastard is still full of unwelcome surprises—pound and beat and twist his devastating fists into each and every pirate without an ounce of mercy, Killua’s not sure what he’s witnessing isn’t entirely impossible. He groans in pain as his headache grows, glancing over the unconscious pirates, some with their broken limbs splayed about them in tangled motions.

Before he knows it, complete silence befalls the tavern. Killua shakes his head, groaning in struggling to stare at the courier, who is shaking from head to toe, blood swallowing up his strong arms and caking his fists. He studies the way Gon is breathing, how his back is still tight and coursing with hidden power that he probably didn’t even know about.

“You’re…” Killua can’t stop the words from spilling from his lips.

He’s too surprised, too confused and unsure what to think of the scene before him. Gon doesn’t seem to be listening to him, his head only slightly turning from where he faces the opposite window. The tinted glass betrays any sense of normalcy, as if there isn’t a casual open market taking place outside, where the sun still shines brightly and numerous faces are alight with shopper’s glee.

Gon’s breathing like a strained animal. His entire body shudders, a slight twitch noticeable in his fingers every five seconds or so. Killua watches as the bright, burning flames simmer to nothing, disappearing as if they were never there. They leave behind the strong, torn clothes, sweaty, frazzled spiked hair and forearms slathered in blood.

His breathing and whispered muttering sounds nothing like the courier Killua has come to know.

“… Courier?” He swallows, fumbling through the dozens of images and lessons he’d been subjected to. People who wielded powerful, ethereal abilities, sometimes without even realizing the extent of their own emotional control. He understood this quality, this strange power that was even rarer than the normal magic that traced Killua’s own blood and bones.

Then, Gon raises a forearm, and runs his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t even turn to look at him when he says: “Are you alright, Killua?”

The mage feels as if he’s been punched a dozen times in the stomach. He’s lightheaded, dehydrated, and struggling to become one with his own body in the same way he had before, but his lack of contact with his inner and outer self is beginning to drain him more and more. He was sure that the shackles were responsible, enchanted with whatever government-approved nonsense that King Meruem had possibly overseen himself, but now it seemed ridiculous. Especially when the Courier transporting him to be killed was apparently gifted in some strange, unheard of way.

“You’re an Arcane,” whispers Killua. The word falls off his tongue like lead. Gon then turns to him, and those black pits for eyes immediately brighten into the oddly warm amber irises Killua had begrudgingly become accustomed to. He didn’t understand why the courier could manage to look so frightening an childish at the same time, with his broad, youthful features and bloodstained hands.

Gon flexes his hands, and releases a long, drawn-out sigh. “Sorry. This wasn’t… really supposed to happen. It’s been a few years.” Then he walks back over to Killua, and the mage instinctively takes a step back. Gon’s frown deepens at this. “Killua—”

“Don’t call me that,” Killua growls defensively, his body already so drained. So, so tired. “I can barely see straight and I’m not even sure what I just saw makes a lot of sense…” He slowly shakes his head, groaning with a palm pressed to his forehead. “We should leave before people find the bodies and…”

Gon watches him, his gaze intense and boiling, but he nods. “Okay.”

* * *

 

 

* * *

“I thought they were only in stories,” mutters Killua, staring in the bowl of rice and strained potatoes set in front of him. It feels wrong and sickening to eat now, but Gon would not stop bothering him until he at least tried, and the stubborn fool insisted on spending far too much coin on him; honestly the mage was baffled that his transporter had any money at all. “You know. What you are.”

Gon’s grin is weak, a shadow of his normal expression that caused simultaneous angry hornets and startled butterflies to rise up in Killua’s stomach. He picks up a piece of bread and bites into it, chewing in a surprising bout of silence.

“You know; this is the part of the conversation where you answer the question.”

“Mm,” hums Gon through a mouthful of bread, “not sure about that.”

The mage snorts, huffing as he grabs a piece of fruit and chomps onto it. He almost winces at the tartness that explodes across his tongue.

“What the hell? So, you can question me about my story and whatnot, but I can’t ask you about yours?”

“You haven’t cared until now,” replies Gon, still not turning towards Killua or even bothering to make eye contact with him. It’s strange that he’s suddenly being so distant, and much to the mage’s annoyance, he hates that the courier isn’t giving him the attention that he’s used to.

Killua rolls his eyes. “Okay. Whatever. See if I care.”

“You _do_ care, though, mage,” says Gon, his smirk hidden behind his bread. Killua stares at him as if he’s grown another pair of arms, and the courier responds with his first good-natured laugh of the evening, despite the fact that he’d mercilessly killed at least seven pirates in a tavern a little more than an hour ago. “You look so funny—”

“What the hell was that? _Mage_? When did you decide to—”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” Gon challenges, tilting his head to the side. Killua honestly can’t decipher whether or not the courier is trying to be coy or if he’s honestly confused, though the mage would bet his scholarly robes from years ago that it was most likely the former.

Killua growls. “It’s weird.”

“You’re the one who told me not to call you by your name, even though I would much rather do that,” continues Gon. He taps his chin and cards a hand through his hair. “I don’t really understand why you don’t like being called by your name. I think it’s pretty.”

Killua releases a dark snarl and hides a frustrated grunt behind a bite into his weird-tasting black, chewy fruit. “Shameless bastard, doesn’t know when to stop and think before he says stupid things…” he mutters grumpily.

A few seconds of silence stops any further reply, pondering over Gon’s reasoning, but when he turns to snap a retort at the courier, he stops.

The faint flickering candlelight set on the tabletop between them forms a sharp outline on Gon’s jaw. Killua watches the dancing embers, noting the deep olive tone of his skin, the challenging glint of hidden fire in his eyes. There’s an underlying strength that curves Gon’s features like stones, that forms the hardiness in his posture and the weight of his soul that almost seems as palpable as the fruit Killua is tasting.

The mage’s tongue ties into knots before he can stop it.

“That was interesting, though, Killua, that you knew what I was.”

Killua snaps out of his stupor and dreadfully hates the rising burning in his skin. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Gon’s grin broadens into a dimpled smile. “You were right though! I hide it because a lot of people just think I’m either a disguised mage running from the law or a normal human. I’m neither of those things, but I didn’t realize it until—,” he then stops, clamping his jaw shut and turning back to his food.

Killua’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “What was that?”

“Nothing. Nope.” Gon starts shoving food into his mouth to suppress the clearly new air of nervousness surrounding him. Killua leans back in his chair, holding back an unimpressed scoff at the other’s childish antics.

“Yeah, sure. Keep trying to dismiss it.”

Killua sighs and groans at the sprouting headache continuing to gnaw at the nape of his neck and travel through his cranium. He listens to the casual footsteps of customers in the restaurant, the clanking of alcoholic goblets, the genuine chatter and occasional eruption of laughter shared between various people.

“So, Arcanes only come to be a thing when their emotions breach a plane of reality, kind of like magic does but powered by emotions and only activated by emotions.” Killua’s tone is decisive and confident, recalling the numerous lessons he’d toiled over in discovering the differences between magic, the very same essence he was born with, and the blood of the Arcane, which were similar but, in ways, incredibly different.

Gon’s only response is a nod, but something dark flashes in his eyes. Killua knows better than to press on these matters, since the Courier possesses strength he hadn’t come to expect.

“So…” Killua’s brow furrows in confusion. He glances at Gon, sudden new thoughts propelling him to ask a question he wouldn’t normally dare to ask. “Just now, with those pirates, you lost it because…” He can’t even decipher it or believe it, but the evidence was there, and judging by how tightly Gon’s free hand is gripping the table, he knows part of his theory must be correct. “Courier, your emotions were _strong enough_ to call out your Arcane side? That means that—”

“I meant what I said, Killua,” says Gon, plastering on a broad, elated smile, but by this point Killua knows that there are a thousand different implications to one simple gesture, especially from him. “They shouldn’t have threatened you.”

Killua’s heart leaps at this admission. “Empty threats,” he promptly replies, dry and weighted. He’d heard much worse when he was younger, even before he’d gained such a reckless reputation; hell, it was a blessing at all that his rags and an oversized hood managed to keep his identity mostly secret to the people of Masadora.

Gon adjust his seat, and Killua expects him to smile dopily at him and stand up and insist they leave to do who knows what, but the courier’s muscles tighten as if he’s struggling to even say another word. A shadow befalls him, something Killua had only seen a few spare moments.

“He called you a whore,” says Gon, whispering to no one in particular. “He touched you. He shouldn’t have done that.”

Killua’s not sure how to respond to that. He doesn’t even care to the extent that his courier does, and that in itself is odd. “Why do you care so much?”

His question isn’t answered.

He watches as Gon simply stands up and approaches the bar counter less than twenty yards away. Killua remains where he is, groaning in the lack of strength reaching his muscles, and honestly he can’t decide why he hasn’t even tried lumbering out of the front doors. Gon would be able to easily catch him with how weak he is, but part of him thinks about fleeing at the next moment and another piece of him wants to understand Gon.

 _I’m crazy._ He buries his face into his hands.

Gon returns to their table with a sharp _clank_ on the tabletop. Killua blinks and owlishly admonishes the courier across from him. To his surprise, Gon is shedding his cloak—an action that Killua’s not sure he finds incredibly embarrassing or somehow enjoyable—and standing beside the table with his own tankard. He brings it to his lips and tilts his head back, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the hot, burning motions of scorching liquid trailing down his throat.

Killua stares blankly. “Hadn’t pegged you as a drinker.”

Gon slumps back in his seat, his undershirt a loose threaded cotton mess, strings incredibly loose over his brawn, toned chest. He’s sweating at this point, his hands removed of the fingerless gloves Killua has often noticed as protective armor with pulling their cart across the country. His skin is flushing a deeper hue, and he looks so different from the confident, straightforward and reckless man who’d been tasked with leading the mage to his death in Antokiba.

Killua’s mouth runs dry, watching the strong column of Gon’s neck lead to the parting of his shirt. He knows he must be strong beneath those layers, and even without the deep green cloak over his shoulders he seems like a tired, venturous wanderer. Killua’s exhausted constantly, but this is the first time, with watching Gon in the chair and a tankard in his hand and his spiky hair drooping slightly and covered in remaining flickers of blood, that he realizes that the courier probably hasn’t slept.

The firelight exposes the rings under Gon’s eyes. A pang develops in Killua’s chest, though he’s not sure why he can bring himself to care at this point. It angers him. Distracts him.

 _Fucking damn._ He sighs and turns to Gon. “Hey. Are you…” he mentally slaps himself. “You alright, Freecss?”

The slightest traces of a smile adorn Gon’s face as he takes another swig of his drink. “You should drink, Killua. Sometimes it’s worth it.”

Killua glares into the tankard and back to the courier. “You’re not acting like yourself.”

“Hm. You know me well enough to know that, then?”

Gon’s smirk is lazy and—whether it’s the trick of the light or Killua’s strange subconscious playing games with him— _sultry_. Killua blinks and quickly turns away from the look he’s giving him; he’s only had half of a drink of some exotic imported wine. He wasn’t drunk. He was clear enough to make this claim and make those expressions without meaning anything.

“Didn’t say that,” growls Killua. His temples throb. He grits his teeth in pain. “Fuck…”

Gon studies him quietly. Killua can feel his stare burning into his half-turned body. He wants to throw his tankard at the other man and watch him get drunk off his own misplaced mirth.

“My aunt was killed on our farmland when I was eight.”

Killua jerks backward. For a moment, his head clears, and he turns to lock eyes with Gon, who’s regained some of his composure, his hands settled on his tankard as he stares into the warm liquid abyss captured between his fingers. Killua traces the distinctive scars marring Gon’s hands, the thick white lines disappearing into the rolled-up sleeves of his loose, wide-sleeved traveler’s shirt.

This sudden personal admission adds another weight to Killua’s shoulders. He studies Gon’s features, how intense his eyes are in the dark of the restaurant.

A hidden darkness dwells there, something that even Killua, as a well-formed killer with a terrible reputation, has not seen before.

“My condolences,” says Killua, lowly and surprising himself. He shuts his mouth, especially when Gon’s eyes lift to find his, and as if entranced in some strange spell he can’t look away. “You…” he coughs into his fist, “you must have cared for her a lot.”

He bites his tongue. He knows he can’t relate to the courier’s plight; his own family simultaneously despised him and heralded him as some revived prophet of sorts at times. His grandfather would always be the only one to listen, but to think of his own mother dying… he would have to refrain from laughing too hard at the thought of him pushing her off a cliff and gladly watching her perish.

“Until I served in the Rebellion, she was the only family I had.” Gon says this so calmly, so straight-lined, that Killua almost misses this incredibly important detail.

Then, a thousand questions he’d been wanting to ask are suddenly answered.

“You were in the Rebellion?” Killua asks.

Gon’s grin is weak, but memories linger on the string of pearls of his teeth.

His smile is normally blinding, _suffocating,_ and it stills Killua’s heart with an irritating sense of warmth and understanding, but this time it’s shrouded in nothing but shadows. Waves of an ocean of memories he’s never been allowed to swim through until this very moment.

“My father started it, so, I found him there.”

Killua’s eyes widen. “Your father…”

Suddenly, he feels like a complete fool.

The spiked hair, the incredible determination, the muscular form and the understanding of politics in some deranged, almost nonsensical manner, the way he carried himself as if he’d handled hundreds of close-quarter fights with his fists and long-distance ones with guns and arrows… it all melds into Gon’s image, and then transforms into the picture of a taller, stronger, yet slinkier man with a definitive scruff and obsidian hair wrapped in a turban.

A man of the desert invading the high, billowing trees of the woodlands, his stance legendary in his declaration of vigilante war, with only a few comrades at his side who boasted incredible abilities that rivaled mages and mortal men alike.

“Ging. You’re Ging Freecss’ son.”

Gon shrugs. “Yeah. I am.”

“You’re—why, why are you working for the _King_? They all disappeared, right? That legion…”

Killua shakes his head. This, this was not what he expected at all. He feels stupid for not piecing together the clear resemblance in attitude and appearance between Gon and Ging, and even their names bearing syllabic similarities. He wants to bang his head onto the table and groan out of self-inflicted misery, but now he can barely stop the tremble in his fingers and the strange unsettling feeling coiling in his gut.

“Well, we lost.” Gon takes another swig of his drink, a thoughtful look overtaking him for a moment. Killua watches him, a strange tightness encasing his body like a tidal wave. “Anyway, I realized I was an Arcane when my aunt was killed.”

Killua’s eyes widen at this. “So you—”

“Killed them. All of them. Tore them apart for what they did to her. They were monsters. They deserved it and she deserved more than their deaths.” His voice has turned frighteningly bleak, losing that secretive trace of humor Killua had become so familiar with after all this time. “If I hadn’t lost control, I would’ve tortured them every day for what they did to her.”

_If I hadn’t lost control…_

This Gon, this courier, is the other side of the coin that Killua had, unbeknownst to even himself, had been searching for.

 _You’re not at all who I thought you were_ , thinks Killua.

He can’t explain the inevitable pull he feels towards the courier, wondering why he can’t just let the topic rest.

“Arcanes are powered by the critical breaking point of one core emotion, especially upon manifestation,” he mutters, once again remembering the countless lectures he’d been subjected to over the years. Some at the hands of a whip and his brother’s lifeless eyes, and others on his lonesome, peering through pages with other forced students who were either killed for not being as strong as him or escaped, their bodies found days later.

Gon doesn’t say anything to this. He doesn’t have to.

 _Your core emotion_ , thinks Killua, a sudden weakness invading his knees. He would have known even before figuring out the courier’s darkest secret. _Your core emotion is anger._

It frightens him. It intimidates him. It fuels him.

The mage hates admitting that coming to this revelation, most of all, drives a dagger of ice-cold thrills and understanding through his lungs, his heart, his soul.

* * *

 

 

* * *

“Can’t believe you drank eight of those,” drawls Killua.

He lumbers through the front doors of the bedroom. Gon is slumped over on his back, and the mage curses every single deity he knows to put him as the one responsible for carrying this fool over him like a sack of potatoes, though Gon occasionally murmurs something coherent that startles the mage and nearly causes him to trip over himself. They were lucky enough that the closest inn was less than two doors down, and Killua was even luckier that he had easy access to Gon’s coinpurse without the other apparently caring.

 _Why am I doing this_ , he thinks, annoyed beyond his own plane of understanding. He should use this as an opportunity to escape the city, or rest somewhere else until his symptoms recede. _But, no, apparently, you’ve gone soft, stupid Killua, and now you’re carrying the guy who’s going to take you to your death to his own room for the night because you’re sick in the head._

He scans the tiny room set before them. A desk, a wardrobe, and a single-person bed are the only objects present in the vicinity. A long window swallows the expanse of the opposite wall, showing a generous view of Masadora with its tall, towering buildings and timid little shops. The moon is raised high in the ink-black sky, releasing streams of silver light through the glass.

Then, Killua kicks the door closed and hobbles forward. “Alright, you need to move yourself—”

He releases a terribly uncalled for squeak when Gon removes himself from his back, and suddenly Killua is pressed to the wall with the larger, taller and (admittedly) stronger male standing only a hairsbreadth away from him. Killua’s eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets at witnessing Gon’s half-mast eyelids, his flushed cheeks and faint giggling demeanor, though something serious lingers in his haunted golden eyes.

The mage swallows, his face burning. He doesn’t know what to do, not with the courier suddenly bringing both hands on either side of Killua’s form, his body dangerously close to his.

_Attack him. Do something. Say something._

But his tongue is viciously tied. The starlight hits Gon’s sweaty, matted hair, sliding over his angled cheekbone. Killua knows that if Gon takes one step further they’ll be far, far too close, and it’s dangerous already that Killua can feel and hear his blood rushing in his ears, the pounding of his rapid heart against his ribcage.

Gon tilts his head, and a sudden wonder shines in those eyes, taking one finger and brushing Killua’s hood back. The mage can’t even bring himself to say anything at this action, trying to find any discernible emotion he recognizes on Gon’s expression. His fingers erupt with static, but he, for the first time in years, does not feel compelled to the attack the first person who’s ever been this close to him without promising him harm.

“Why is everything…” Gon trails off, his brow furrowing as if contemplating something he doesn’t yet understand, like a toddler observing a dragonfly for the first time.

Killua’s body hums with heat and confusion and other emotions he doesn’t recognize, not with the courier this close, not with the strange intimacy of their position.

Then, Gon brings that same finger to brush a strand of Killua’s hair behind his ear.

“… So complicated with you?” Gon finishes this in a whisper, his breath fragrant with rosy alcohol.

Then, Gon backs away from him, and falls onto the bed with a loud _thump_. The absence of his body immediately delivers a chill over Killua’s exposed arms and collarbones.

Killua blinks. Once. Twice. He slowly collapses to the carpet, and is unable to gather his thoughts, as they’re racing even faster than his confused, erratic heart.

He waits until Gon is asleep to actually move again, trembling and trying to push away the headache gnawing at the corridors of his mind. He rolls back his shoulders, and turns his attention to Gon’s satchel, having dropped it unceremoniously upon entering the room.

The mage bends down to pick it up, when something dark and small tumbles out of the open bag. Killua frowns and sets down the satchel, bending down to pick up the object.

“A book…?”

He frowns, turning the simple, flimsy book back and forth in his hands. It’s no longer than his own clenched fists, the pages worn and yellowed with countless fingers brushing them by. He turns to glance over Gon’s unconscious form on the bed, and back to the flimsy wad of embossed oily leather and paper in his hands.

He cracks it open, his eyes scanning through multiple illustrations of labeled cities and landmarks. The mage’s eyes widen in wonder, flipping through numerous pages and counting each city and name he recognizes as he does so. Then, he pauses upon recognizing one name in particular: Masadora.

“So he’s been here before,” he whispers. The sketch is stunning, clearly not subjected to Gon’s childish scrawl. The buildings are immaculately measured to resemble an important destination for supplies and transportation. On the corner of the page, Killua sees coordinates leading to neighboring cities.

His heart skips.

“Wait…”

He flips through the book, matching one illustration after another, lining up the coordinates and directions that are clear as day. He flips back and forth between the definitive illustrations and markings of Antokiba and Masadora, and nausea boils in his gut. He snaps the book shut, trembling, as he stares at Gon’s sleeping form.

Antokiba, the Capitol of the King Meruem’s reformed Empire, the very place where they’ve been supposedly traveling to for this many weeks, the very place where he’s been ordered to be taken to meet his fate…

“Is in the opposite direction,” whispers Killua. He slowly turns to look at Gon’s sleeping form.

 _Who are you_ , thinks Killua, shaking his head as another headache assaults him, _and where are you really taking me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AH. THIS CHAPTER.
> 
> Heaven almighty. This is easily my favorite chapter I've written for this story BY FAR. I'm so happy with how this turned out. I hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it! 
> 
> Also, THANK YOU. Each and every one of you for leaving those incredible comments and kudos and everything else! It means the absolute world and I cannot thank all of you enough for being so wonderful to this story and being such dedicated, invested readers! Thank you so, so very much. It truly means the most to any writer! Plus I love writing for this story so I'm glad that I can share it with you readers. :)


	7. Unbeknownst and Undiscovered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gon wakes up to... not something he expects. What a surprise.

Sunlight filters through the single glass window to the bedroom. Gon cracks his left eye open, groaning at the numbing pain throbbing in his temple. He watches, slightly mesmerized, as the gentle morning light dapples his fingers and trails along his arm, turning his olive skin a shade brighter than normal.

He extends his arm above him, tilting his head in observation and squinting at the small details. Lifting his head, he surveys the warm blanket thrown over his strong body, the change of clothes brought in a folded heap next to the bed, and the tankard filled to the brim with rosewater. He gingerly sits up, rolling his neck and cracking the necessary bones. His cotton shirt is loose and stained with sweat from a heated, deep sleep.

It’s been years since he’d slept like that, unconscious and listening to the sounds of another human’s breathing as evening turned into dusk, and dusk opened unto dawn. Groaning, Gon presses his palms to his eyes, rubbing them in exaggerated motions. He knows the routine; chug the rosewater to wash out his pallet, munch on a stick of honeycomb less than two coppers-worth in the market square, and practice walking in a straight line to shove away the headache gnawing in the back of his mind. He grumbles, and brings the tankard to his lips, humming in momentary bliss at the familiar scent flooding his nostrils—

Wait.

Gon frowns and places the tankard back on the table, a sudden jolt running through his body. He remembers bits and pieces of the day before, recalls the startled faces of pirates as he brutally slammed their faces into tables and broke their bones without a second of hesitation. His mind flashes to Killua’s sweaty, disgruntled face, growing weaker and weaker still without the shackles to simultaneously subdue him and allow passage to his forbidden powers. He remembers touching those silver locks of hair, almost close enough to press his mouth to the mage’s porcelain neck—

No. No. He needs to focus.

 _The rosewater._ His Aunt Mito had taught him that trick, jokingly warning him that if he were to ever invade her wine storage out of boredom and lose himself to a stupor, sniffing and sipping rosewater would subdue his headaches. A natural cure for an alcohol-induced morning sickness.

His stomach drops to his toes; the only way someone else could have known that information…

“Your little black book says rosewater helps with hangovers.”

Gon snaps his head up, almost too quickly in reaction to the startled throbbing in his skull. He winces at the pain, but dares not leave the inquisitive, ice-cold stare studying him a few feet from his bed. He sees the mage straighten, his hood removed and leaving behind the loose, sleeveless rags for a shirt and makeshift drawstring trousers. Rays of sunlight speckle the mage’s skin, illuminating his frightening gray-blue eyes into swirling oceans.

Gon has been rendered speechless many times by the mage’s beauty, all of which the other not noticing, but in this moment he stills with caution, his left hand poised instinctively on the hidden knife in his trouser pocket, as he studies the open book the mage is casually flipping through in a chair across from him.

Killua Zaoldyk even has the audacity to lean against the wall, one leg balancing on the other knee, his eyes turning mockingly wide and curious as he assesses the illustrations with a wandering finger. Then, he closes the booklet, waving the book in the air and allowing a sardonic, crooked smirk to overtake his lips.

“Well, Courier, this is a pretty interesting piece right here. All these places, these cities and villages in our messed up country. And here we are in Masadora, a month into our so-called _journey_ , as you’ve so kindly put it on occasion, conveniently more than six hundred miles away from Antokiba, in the opposite direction. Funny thing, how this book seems to keep track of all of your travels.”

The mage sets the book down on the tabletop, and slowly turns to the courier with a newfound glimmer of dark, haunting, wary emotion flickering in his eyes.

Gon’s heart eagerly jumps against his ribs. He needs more time.

“You weren’t supposed to find that—”

“Yeah, no shit.” The mage scowls. “You have five minutes to explain yourself, _Courier_. Or is that even what you are? Hm, I hypothesize that you’re probably not. So, oh _noble_ son of Ging Freecss, it’d be in your best interest to tell me the fucking truth. If you don’t, I’ll kill you right here, right now.”

Gon’s response is instinctive and sparks off his tongue without given any thought: “You wouldn’t be able to even if you tried, _Killua_.”

At this, Killua straightens, and jolts from his chair in a movement that’s so quick that, despite Gon’s splitting headache, he joins this motion. Both men stand in front of the other, their glares intense and splitting fire and ice between them in invisible motions. As if a cord of bendable electricity binds their equally powerful stares, they survey and study, both aware of what the other is doing and on entirely different planes.

Killua shifts less than an inch to his right. Gon does the same with his left.

The mage clicks his tongue. “I’m still stronger than you.” Despite this, Gon notes the slightest tremble to Killua’s shoulders, a betrayal of his words and only witnessed by those with the seasoned eyes of a soldier. And Gon has seen many, many instances that required him of this skill; the secret smirk that turns his lips should go unnoticed by the talented, dangerous, and yet, not as experienced killer in his vicinity.

Gon’s expression molds into stone, his arms steadied at his sides. “I was going to tell you the truth when we arrived.”

Killua stiffens at this, a sneer curling back his mouth. Gon can sense that the mage is struggling to retain his former level of power, desperately attempting to communicate with the side of his soul that allows him to pursue such incredible manipulation of nature. He cannot let that happen before he explains himself.

“Arrived _where_?” Killua’s fingers curl into his palms. “Were you going to take me to be _sold_? At the docks? In those underground markets? Lump me in a cage with all the other mages who get slaughtered like pigs after being violated? I didn’t think you’d be the type but most traders have to lure them in somehow.” He glares into the ground, harshly breathing in a desperate attempt to control his riled emotions. “So stupid…”

He shakes his head, and Gon suppresses a shocked reply at this accusation. He doesn’t know what to say to calm down the other mage, who remains in an offensive stance despite how shaken he is.

He swallows the lump in his throat. _No, no, no, that’s not true. I would never do that to you. Never, never, never._ “Killua—”

Then, Killua’s eyes find him again, and the look alone paralyzes the courier to the very bone. He simply returns the glare, the both of them subduing each other in sharp, withering motions, a combat that can only be taken seriously between the two parties involved.

“ _Don’t_ say my name,” the mage snarls out, “we’re _not_ friends. We never were, we never _will be_ , and even though you’re not taking me to Antokiba, I know that what you have planned for me has to be worse. There’s no other way around that.”

Gon simply stares, the silence thickening like tar.

“I’m not your enemy,” he says, cleanly. Solidly. He wishes words alone were enough, but he knows that Killua’s intelligence relies mostly on his analytical ability, and that will only make it harder to convince him that his crossroads scenarios should not be relevant to them.

Killua snorts and breaks the tantalizing spell of concentration once more, his fingers cracking as if in preparation to cast a chant. Gon knows better, though; he knows that Killua is not strong enough to reach his former state, despite the determination that captures his unwavering face. Every breaking frown, every flicker of knowing in his eyes, every twitch of his jaw… it’s all so easy to witness, so impossible not to notice.

He tilts his head in pondering, eyeing Gon with a subtle disgust underlying his calm facade. The look alone makes Gon’s fists clench hard at his sides, frustration building inside him; he keeps telling himself to think, think, _think_.

“That bastard pirate even said I was worth selling. You could sell my eyes. My hair. My skin, or tongue, or organs, maybe? I don’t give two fucks about what’s considered _valuable_ from me physically, but I’m not stupid enough to write off that conclusion.”

Gon slowly shakes his head, carefully keeping Killua’s eye contact level with him. It’s as if he’s prowling around an agitated panther, concealing himself in a submissive, yet cautious manner; it reminds him of hunting in the dense woodlands many years ago, when Mito was still alive. When she would trail behind him with gauzes and medicines, a sword propped at her hip as she beckoned for him to practice with the moldable bullets Ging had sent to him as a present for his ninth birthday.

“Killua, I would _never_ do that to you,” he breathes, voice barely above a whisper, each word forced out as if cocooned in metal. Killua studies him, and for a moment, Gon glimpses a ray of gentleness flash through the mage’s disposition, but it vanishes as quickly as it comes. “I don’t intend to hurt you at all. If I did, wouldn’t I have done it already?”

He needs to be careful, time his movements exactly right. Killua actually seems to consider this, watching Gon steadily with one eyebrow risen, watching him as intently as the other male across from him. Despite the small distance between them, it feels as if they’re being pulled across an ocean, one bristling with flames and gunpowder.

“I always thought it was strange.” Killua’s lips are drawn into a thin line. Gon’s left hand twitches over his knife, and this time, the mage spots the action as quickly as noticing a fly on his elbow. “But if you’re planning to hand me over to someone else for transport, or sell my body parts for coin, you’d want to keep your prize _untouched_ , right?”

His voice loses its edge, but only slightly. Just enough for Gon to hear it repeat in broken rhythm in his aching mind.

A dreadful weight seizes Gon’s chest. He sinks his teeth into his tongue, wondering just how he can convince the mage to believe otherwise. It sickens him to even think that anyone else would consider doing those exact things to the mage, and if he were any other courier who strayed against the word and law of King Meruem, they most likely would have.

The journey from the prison fortress where Killua was held to Antokiba was often shrouded in tales and mystery, though the ones who weren’t biased against the persecuted mages would hear of them being burned alive, sold into slavery, raped and tortured… the list was endless, and not one day had gone by during his travels with Killua Zaoldyk that he wondered what would have happened if another courier was sent to him.

“I can’t tell you everything yet, Killua,” says Gon. “But I will. I promise. I’m trying to _help_ you.” _There’s so much more you need to know._

The mage rolls his eyes. Gon holds his breath, hand poised over his knife, knowing full well that the other teen has spotted him doing so within the first few heartbeats.

“Come on, _Gon_. Just who do you take me for? I’m not your run-of-the-mill novice wizard.”

Gon shivers at hearing his name roll off Killua’s tongue, even though it’s drenched in uncertainty and disdain. The mage’s body suddenly begins to shift, a string dispersing into the air that winds through the wooden floors and cracks in the stone-rimmed walls. Gon’s fists clench harder at noticing the growing strings of power and tension enveloping Killua’s form, a subtle tremor that’s visible in the liquid blue and white lines tracing under his porcelain skin.

Killua’s eyes brighten for a moment, before a crooked smirk overtakes his lips. Gon steadies himself, watching as the mage brings up his hand to his face, a crinkle noted in his palms. Winding blue and white tendrils snake around his arms and spark upon his fingers, an orb forming in the palm of his hand.

“How inconvenient for you, _Gon_ ,” whispers Killua, as he turns to Gon with an expression that would send just about anyone other than the courier to his grave in a heartbeat, “that this won’t be a fair fight.”

Killua rears back his hand, fist clenching over the orb.

Gon lunges forward.

* * *

 

 

* * *

The immediate sound of glass shattering and cement blocks hurling onto stones shocks and shakes the entirety of Masadora’s market square.

The sky bleeds from the bustle of dawn to the gentle climb of a true, early morning, where the sun continues to rise far earlier than it normally should in neighboring seasons, due to its placement in the current moon cycle. Still, the silence enveloping the normally vibrant and lively square shatters in an instant, as fragments of vicious glass shards penetrate the cobbles and two distinctive human figures tumble out of the windows, wrapped and coiled in twining cords of blue, white and stripes of silver.

Gon lands on his back, quickly shoving the writhing mage off of him. Killua grinds his heels into the stones and winds up several yards away from Gon, the courier quickly regaining his balance and leaping to his feet. The courier removes his dagger, assessing the distance between them, the dangerous quiet that consumes the city in its wake.

“I don’t want to fight you, Killua!” Gon yells.

He grimaces at the electric tendrils bursting through his body from the brief contact he had when lunging towards the mage in the bedroom. He keeps his distance, surveying his surroundings, the platforms he can use to leap from and the walls he can use to climb if need be. Killua studies him as well, though his quick surge of magical energy seems to be fading, sweat prominent and dripping from his chin with just that quick movement alone.

Killua, despite his weakening state already, keeps his head held high, his shoulders straight and stance powerful. Even without his hood and being completely exposed as an escaped prisoner, a Zaoldyk, no less, he presents himself as a contender to fight. Gon inwardly screams at the unfairness of the situation, wondering how and why Killua could have found the book in his satchel so easily.

 _I just needed more time for him to believe me_ , Gon thinks.

Killua’s eyes drift from Gon’s head to his toes. It’s not the curious glance or the flustered glare or even the patronized, demanding _look_ that never failed in forcing Gon to smile against the will of his job. No, Gon was not supposed to have grown an attachment to the mage. No, Gon was not supposed to become so fond of such a dangerous, presumably bloodthirsty person, but when he glanced at Killua, all he could see was someone who was…

 _Lost._ Gon swallows. _I’m lost, too._ He wants to scream to his current opponent, wants to drill these words into the other’s skull until he’s forced to recant them like some twisted mantra. _We’re both lost, and there’s so much I need to tell you, and I don’t want to fight._

“I’ve been lied to one too many times to buy that, Courier!” Killua yells, and for an instant the sparks return, but just barely coursing in a much more subdued current along his body.

Against the backdrop of a receding nightfall and growing dawn, he looks majestic, and yet, outplaced: a stray boy stripped of his magical robes and thrust into circumstances beyond his control. A torn portrait in the making that Gon has helped create.

“We both know you’re not strong enough to kill me, Killua. And believe it or not,” Gon says, splaying his arms out wide and dropping the dagger in his hand, “I don’t want to kill you. Please, just let me explain as much as I’m allowed to at this point. You—you trust me, don’t you?” It’s a futile question, but he’s never been the type of person to hesitate.

Killua watches him with furrowed brows, not believing him, and Gon takes this as a sign to move closer to the mage. His bare feet scuff the stones, the cold morning chill squirming along his exposed collarbones and shoulders. Killua growls and leaps back, sparks carrying him briefly in the air before he lands ungracefully on the cobbles. He winces at his own lack of control, his fingers prickling and cracking. The veins twining in magical ropes beneath Killua’s arms are pulsing with faint life, desperate to reach the surface, yet not able to just yet.

“You said yourself that I’m not a fool, Killua,” says Gon.

“I never said that, bastard,” Killua growls out, “and don’t put words in my mouth! Are you trying to dig your grave even deeper?” He bristles like an irritated dragon hatchling, continuously stepping backwards as Gon takes another one forward. Even now, he’s acting as if he’s the one cornered, despite the clear advantage he has over the other near-mortal.

The courier shakes his head. “Killua. I don’t want to fight you. And…” he trails off, and then attempts to crack the smallest smile. “You don’t want to fight me either.”

“Stop talking,” says Killua. Still, Gon knows he’s found a part of the mage that he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

Killua would often refrain from speaking about himself unless begged for hours on end and being bribed with something in return, and in those spare moments he’d collected those fleeting glances and falsely annoyed glares that reminded the courier that there was a true link of trust between them. He knew it was there, knew it was as real as the wine he drank the night before, as the rosewater Killua had bothered to draw for him, even as a snide reminder and preparation for what was to come.

“Believe me, Killua, I’m already breaking a lot of rules with how we’ve… _been_ , around each other, these last few weeks. I’m asking you to give me a chance to explain myself.”

Gon watches as the mage stiffens and refuses to look towards him, but his posture has become more relaxed. More careful. The air of hostility still surrounds him in a suffocating cloud.

“And if you kill me here, there’s nowhere else for you to go. You don’t have connections outside of that fortress.” Gon’s voice softens with this, ignoring the stab of guilt at his manipulative choice of words. “You said so yourself, before we went into the woodlands.”

Killua’s eyes then snap open, and Gon barely reacts. “ _Dis fulmen’autur_.”

The incantation breathes life into the air as if bestowed from an angelic tongue. In that instant, sparks burst beneath Gon’s feet, and he’s catapulted back several yards. He winces, rolling onto the cobbles and forcing his muscles to react in time to stand back up. He needs to, in order to face the mage directly and avoid giving him another chance to strike.

But when he does, he pauses, noting how Killua’s dropped to one knee, panting. Nearly breathless with just one incantation leaving him. Leftover sparks twirl around his singed clothes like dancing serpents, no thicker than a quill but no longer than a finger. They become tangible, filmy substances, before bursting into nothingness seconds later.

“Killua…” Gon takes a step forward.

“ _Don’t you dare come any closer or I swear I’ll kill you right fucking now_ ,” snaps Killua. His breath is harsh, pushed, forced through his rapidly clanging teeth. Gon’s chest constricts at watching him become embroiled in his own pain, forcing his suppressed magic to react and rise to the surface with newfound consequences.

It’s against his protocol.

_“If the mage retaliates without any shackles, let the effects take them down afterwards. At that point they will be too dangerous to restrain. They will continue using their magic after burning out, and it will consume them from the inside out.”_

Gon’s mouth runs dry. He can barely comprehend what’s happening in front of him, watching as the teenager, no older than him, just as young and terrified as he probably was all those years ago when convicted of hundreds of bloodthirsty, gut-wrenching murders, trembles like a fallen leaf under the brute force of a rainstorm. Gon’s hands ball into fists. He bites into his knuckles, blood trickling between his teeth as he fights his instinct.

 _I can’t let him die_. He can’t.

It physically pains him, as if another supernatural force is twisting and churning his gut, ripping it up into smaller fragments as he watches the mage double over. He flinches, images of his mentors drilling these orders into his mind, convincing him that the mage will only be useful for a certain purpose, and if those actions are broken, then so be it. He remembers each voice, distinct in their influx and powerful in their command, wrapping around his thoughts and ideas like cords and chains.

“Killua, if you keep trying to overuse your magic, it will kill you from the inside out. That’s—that’s how those shackles are designed, cursed with royal magic for mages—”

“Stop talking, idiot! I’m—concentrating…”

Killua lurches forward, static erupting over his cheekbones and consuming him in a near-blinding bluish white glow. The mage opens his mouth, heaving as thick wads of blood erupt from inside him. Oily and crimson and unmistakable in the way they scream _danger_ in Gon’s mind, these droplets meld with thick, black sludge, marking the stones in front of the convulsing mage.

Gon’s jaw slacks. His heart drops.

The courier doesn’t even waste another moment. He rushes to the mage’s side, ignoring the immediate jolts of static that crawl into his fingers and rush through his arms. His hands hover over the struggling mage’s form as Killua continues hacking and heaving, his pupils blown wide and utter panic consuming the former confidence and unrelenting glare of _hurt_ that took place in those startling blue orbs.

“Stay,” Killua snaps, strained and terrified and _desperate_ , “ _away from me_ —”

Gon rams his clenched fist into the back of the mage’s head. In an instant, Killua collapses, though Gon quickly loops his arm beneath his chest to steady him before he can hit the ground. The mage’s body is slender and warm in his grasp. Gon’s teeth grind, frustration building into his mind and calling forth hundreds of other conclusions the mage could have come to if he’d only kept flipping through the black book.

“I’m not letting you die, Killua,” says Gon.

* * *

 

 

* * *

It takes Gon and his trusted geldings four days to reach the neighboring village of Villenov. And in those hours, compared to the last few weeks he’s been subjected to exchanging reluctant stories and tales of interest with a man gifted with unspeakable power, Gon has found these days to be the loneliest.

The silence screams loudly in the wind-whipped fields of grass and upturned flowers. Daisies and cornflowers bloom in streaks of white, pale blue and splashes of pink. The trees on this path—dubbed the Amber Road—stretch and loom overhead in less frightening, less concealing ways. They bridge too nicely against one another, their roots hardly ever becoming entangled; Gon would have hated climbing these trees as opposed to the dangerous trunks as thick as mountains back in the first stretch of the Wilds.

Gon plasters on his best smiles and most joyous greeting voices when mingling with the village folk. They all seem weathered from past wars, some faces he even recognizes from fighting alongside him in the trenches with Commander Kurta, all those years ago, when he’d first manifested his identity as a man—no, a _boy_ —with Arcane blood flowing through his veins.  

Being subjected to guiding them through every conversation is exhausting, but Gon manages. The courier delivers a handful of rare silver coins to one man boasting a thick, curled moustache and greedy black eyes. They remind Gon vaguely of bark beetles he’d catch in glass jars before releasing them soon after, in times where he could distinctly remember Mito weaving her hands through his hair and kissing him goodnight.

He swallows to prevent the tears from breaking, as he thanks the strange man for allowing him space to stay. When he delivers his horses to the stables outside the village territory, Killua Zaoldyk still does not stir from his unconsciousness, and the worry that seizes Gon’s heart whenever he glances over to the other male and hopes he awakens soon, should not exist. But, it does, and he knows that if his superiors discover what he’s done in deliberately disobeying their orders regarding the enchanted shackles, that he will be subjected to a strong form of punishment.

“It’s worth it,” he whispers, as he purchases a roll of bread from a traveling merchant. He smiles politely and drops a few select coins in the man’s knobby fingers. “Thank you, kind sir!” He takes off a piece and chews contentedly on one end, and then, turns back to the merchant with widened eyes. “Actually, do you also happen to sell anything sweet?”

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

He’d definitely gone overboard.

The merchant supplied Gon with enough food to last for the next two weeks at least, but also provided multiple silken garments imported from overseas. Gon had only seen clothing this rich in color and depth in other places, yet he chose the subtler tones, the black cotton shirt and traveler’s trousers and a new pair of swamp-treading moccasins. Clothing, food, and then a knew knife he gladly sheathed into his sleeve, this one longer and riddled in colored stones.

He returns to the small, temporary home for the week, admiring the warm details littered throughout the tiny space with an occasional flicker of interest. However, his smoldering golden eyes drift to the one spot in the room where he’s been struggling to alleviate himself from: his prisoner, the mage, unconscious and wrapped in blankets on a makeshift bed.

 _Today’s the fourth day_ , Gon thinks. Then, as usual, he takes out his black booklet, marks another page, and waits.

It takes another hour, but when the mage finally stirs, Gon can’t prevent the ecstatic smile bursting on his lips. Killua blinks once, grimacing, sucks in a long breath, and adjusts to staring at the humble, low wooden ceiling and the random portraits of potted plants set above the fireplace close to them. Gon keeps his distance, cautious, but something tells him, something secret lingering between the courier and the mage alike, that Killua will not attack him.

Gon crosses his legs on the ground, glancing over the mage’s standstill form on the makeshift bed. Even in the humble glow of firelight, Killua’s pale lashes glisten like the lunar wings of moths. His eyes are sunken and heavy, but always emotionally poignant and layered in mystery in a simultaneous spell that Gon can never pull himself away from. The only defense he has against the way the mage looks at him is to return his own version of that effect, often leading to a staring competition that varied in who would lose which round.

Killua’s fingers twitch at his sides. His jaw is tight, and his eyes are straight, heavy and clear, addressing the cracks and splinters in the ceiling with distracted interest. Gon hums a small tune to himself, intertwining his fingers and setting them on his lap.

“You’re still the dumbest person I’ve ever met. Ever.”

Gon blinks at the sudden statement. It’s weak, and barely resembles any ounce of sarcastic strength that the mage can normally muster; his voice is dry, as if silk stretched forcefully along coals and burned through with troublesome holes and stitches.

“You don’t know me that well if you believed I was going to leave you there,” says Gon. “I wasn’t lying, when I said I wasn’t your enemy.” He stops there, hoping that the words sink in, given that the mage is just barely conscious.

Killua still refrains from looking at him. Yet, his hands bunch up the fabric of the blankets surrounding him. He grimaces, a groan rumbling in his throat.

“Where are we?”

An overwhelming sense of relief crashes through Gon. He’d feared—desperately so—that Killua would stop talking to him altogether, or would try to attack him and hurt himself in the process. It amazed him how eagerly and easily the mage was willing to place his life on the line to either prove a point or experience some exhilarating thrill.

This, they had in common.

Gon smirks despite himself. _He thinks before he does it though._

“It’s a village a few days’ travel from Masadora.”

“Ah.” Killua slumps back, groaning. “Why do you always do this?”

Gon hums at this question. Even with his voice half-gone the mage still finds it in him to make snarky demands. “Do what?” He grins crookedly at the sharp glare Killua sends shriveling into the ceiling, as if the curved wooden boards and glue-like clay were responsible for his frustrations and not the courier sitting beside him.

“I attacked you. I was going to kill you.” Killua rolls his eyes. “And you’re nursing me back to health. I don’t understand it. You… you make no sense.”

Gon shrugs. “We’ve been over this. You’re already running out of material, Killua.”

“This isn’t the end of this, Courier,” Killua whispers. Gon glances at him. “I want answers. And no, I’m not stupid; I knew I wasn’t strong enough to actually kill you. You’re not even fully human with your Arcane blood. Obviously, given my current handicap, I wouldn’t be able to properly kill you.” He sighs, as if discussing an exhausting day tilling the fields. Frankly, it boggles Gon’s mind, though he finds it equally interesting and amusing. “I was prepared to die, you know. I’d accepted it. I told you all those stories about me because I didn’t see a point when there clearly was no way to avoid it.”

Gon pauses at this. His fingers clench tighter around each other, teeth gnawing into his bottom lip. He wants to apologize, to take whatever mistake he’s made back for the sake of the mage in front of him. He wants to find another way to turn back time and meet Killua under different circumstances, and even now he’s not sure why.

“I’m angry that you’ve saved my life a good few times, idiot.” Killua snorts at his own words, a ghost of smile passing over his lips. Gon watches in mild fascination, somehow unable to look away as the mage finally turns his head and those breathtaking blue eyes meet his. “I don’t care how long it takes, anymore. Just tell me what’s going on.”

Gon wants to tear out every strand of hair on his head in frustration. He’s bound to too many words, and he’s not sure if he’s drawn to tell Killua the truth because of his confused thoughts and whirling emotions or his odd sense of extreme loyalty. He’d undoubtedly grown attached to the oceanic mosaic that was Killua Zaoldyk, and now he can practically see himself sinking.

“A story for a story. Right. Forgot the dumb rules you made up.”

Gon’s heart flutters at this. He swallows back his own worries and waits in patience as Killua fumbles through his mind, picking out the crevices of his consciousness. The courier can’t help the subtle excitement springing to life inside him, the greedy part of his mind aching to listen to what else this mysterious mage has to stay.

“I’ll tell you…” he trails off, and studies Gon carefully. “You tell me the truth, the _whole_ truth.” He pauses, draws in a long, lingering breath. “And I’ll tell you about what happened to those four hundred people at the Ivory Gates.”

Gon’s mind speeds to a sudden stop. “Wait, that’s—”

“You’ve trusted my word for some reason this long. So, why would a mage, who’s been sentenced to death for killing four hundred people at once at twelve years old, talk about this last-second? Well, you sprung up your truth on me last-second, so I think this is only fair.” Killua growls out the last few words, as if bitter and angry, but the way he speaks of this, the way he wrestles with this topic, screams authenticity and wonderment to Gon.

“You mean…” The courier nods. “You weren’t the one who—”

Suddenly, the doors to the hovel cave in. Gon jolts to his feet, instinctively spreading out his arms and legs in a powerful, confident stance in front of Killua’s bed.

He braces himself, watching, as the door completely flies off its hinges and slams into the opposite wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, on my side of the country, it's not July 7th JUST YET, but, SURPRISE, I uploaded this chapter earlier than Saturday because it's Killua Zoldyck's birthday! Woooooo!
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Happy Birthday to the best Zoldyck! :D
> 
> EDIT: Made some changes with amazing input from Shawnathin93, who beta'd this chapter! His work is fabulous, by the way. :D


	8. Beside the Amber Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gon tests Killua's patience. Killua rejects his confusion. It's a mess, really, and both courier and mage are addicted to it all.

If Gon had bothered paying attention, he would have noticed that Killua was not nearly as unconscious as he’d convinced himself to believe.

The thrums of anger and impatience simmering in his blood had jolted him in one direction while recklessly ignoring the other possibilities, and it wasn’t until he’d noticed how feeble his magic still was that he knew he couldn’t win. Gon was not weak, and Killua was not as foolish as he'd been led to believe under the watchful, ghostly eyes of his older brother.

The mage had gathered his thoughts, pulling himself out of the deep, black pit of his unconsciousness with a desperate need to take in his surroundings. The first day of leaving Masadora left him confused, thoughts and images rolling in unison in his mind’s eye. Woven cotton scratched his exposed skin, his ragged, torn garments hanging off his shoulders in ripped lines. The blankets the courier had left wrapped around his slender form made his skin color with embarrassment, but he refused to say a single word or keep his eyes open when the other male bothered to stop the wagon every so often to make sure he was still breathing.

It wasn’t long before he awoke again. His fists were clenched in his slumber, the familiar sting of fresh cuts and coppery blood sinking and drifting into the thin, wiry mattress beneath him. He was surprised, at first, to listen to the gentle hum of the courier’s breathing.

Gon disappeared in intervals during the day, often returning with gifts—loaves of bread wrapped in leaves, apples collected in handwoven baskets, tiny drawstring bags filled with nuts and seeds thrown into the growing pile in the corner of the house.

He hated lying on that bed, listening to the creaking in the walls and the scattering legs of insects and tiny rodents thumping overhead and under the floors. The fire crackles and simpers, like a whimpering wolf, a sound he knew all too well from years past. His memories often returned when he allowed himself to sleep. Each time he attempted to crawl back into a world of blackness, he would be tossed around and shoved into memories he’d rather forget—an endless mosaic of broken wishes. A sea of shattered dreams.

Killua grunts and shifts on the bed, a sharp pain ripping under his skin. With a click of his tongue, he acknowledges one truth he can pinpoint without craning his neck: his wounds have been bandaged.

 _Of course_.

Killua snorts and holds back a harsh chuckle at the unfortunate situation he’s found himself in. He would rather be angry, screaming at the top of his lungs and casting lightning onto the earth and watching the forests burn. He would rather use one of his many excuses than be torn in half in his judgment. He feels foolish, reckless, idiotic, even, for falling for tricky wordplay that someone as childish and dangerous as the courier would wield as a weapon.

He wants to instill some form of discomfort in the courier after the harsh truths he’d been subjected to only days before. The rage that fueled him once he found the maps, the liquefied tremors of memories and conversations he’d purposefully left open for the courier to witness, the way the courier—the way that _Gon_ —had stepped into his personal space, fingers barely grazing his cheek, only made Killua more intent on harming him. On hurting him. On delivering a message that was just as fierce as the fear that gripped his own heart in its frigid, steely jaws.

The more he looks at him, the more outraged he is. Yet, there’s the lingering sense of something else he can hardly decipher without overthinking the possibilities. He doesn’t want to launch into a realm of thinking he knows he can’t afford to interact with right now. Not when his stomach fills with humming butterflies the moment he traces Gon’s sculpted jawline and large, compassionate amber eyes returning warmth and respect, rather than resentment and hurt.

He hates how he feels attacked and taken advantage of when the outcome of both possibilities of becoming more than acquaintances with the courier were more than obvious to him from the beginning.

The moment he’d allowed himself to admire the moldable bullets Gon used in his strange contraption of a slingshot, he knew he was in some form of danger. The second he found interest in the way Arcane blood pulsed and glowed with chaotic energy that was so eerily similar to magic, yet so incredibly different at the same time, he shivered. When Gon had encroached into his personal space in the darkness of the inn, face flushed and heat rolling off his olive skin in immeasurable waves, Killua had been all too tempted to ignore the stutter of his heart and simply allow the other male to whisper a secret that both would never admit to.

His teeth grit, bile rising cold and bitter in the back of his throat. He swallows it back down, staring harshly into the wooden ceiling and ignoring his confused, meandering thoughts. They twist and turn in his mind, distracting him from the reasons why he felt so angry and… _betrayed_ , in the first place.

_Is that really what I felt?_

Killua’s lips purse, bunching the fabric beneath him in his clammy fists. It’s a poor imitation of what he’d rather do, preferably grabbing the courier by the throat and demanding to know every secret he keeps locked away in his mind.

_It doesn't... make any sense._

Before he can even pay attention to the sudden presence of the courier entering the vicinity, Killua hums in thought and wonder, eyes closed to peruse his thoughts peacefully. He almost gasps when he notices Gon sitting beside his bed with his thumbs rubbing against one another, an abnormally pensive look crossing his features in a way Killua isn’t used to seeing. He stiffens, willing himself to remain quiet until he blinks open his eyes, rehearsing the practiced appearance of a man just waking from a deep sleep.

He doesn’t have to actually read Gon’s features to see how much the other has worried. He’s embarrassed to admit that he picks up certain mannerisms, obvious in the crinkling around Gon’s honey eyes and the occasional twitch to his broad smiles. He hardly ever faltered from those expressions, but when he did, his veins glowed orange and white and red.

Gon, while keeping his distance, is still cautious. A true hunter out of practice, but with just enough skill to track Killua’s actions and deduce whether or not he’s still a threat.

 _It’s not worth it_ , thinks Killua, repressing a sigh. _It’s not worth it to fight him. I don’t even know what I’m fighting for._ He lets this thought slip away, before finally opening his mouth to speak and keeping his gaze sharply steered away from Gon.

“You’re still the dumbest person I’ve ever met. Ever.”

He finds a significantly large crack in the wooden ceiling to focus on while he pretends that the courier isn’t this close to his bedside. It makes him nervous, knowing how close they are to each other, and how easily Gon could take advantage of his weakened state and kill him. It wouldn’t be impossible for the other male to change his mind—

“You don’t know me well if you believed I was going to leave you there,” says Gon, his tone lighthearted but stronger than what Killua remembers. It’s odd to hear him talk this way, so strangely happy yet losing the slightest golden touch that makes his voice so unique. “I wasn’t lying, when I said I wasn’t your enemy,” he finishes in a whisper.

Killua doesn’t know what to say to that. He clenches the fabric beneath him harder, twisting it up, thinking just how easily this could have been handled if he’d bothered searching through the courier’s belongings a day or two into their journey across the country.

Still, something stirs within Killua, something gentle and soft as swan feathers. He pushes it down, trying to keep himself in the present.

“Where are we?” he asks, mentally kicking himself. He needs to make his other questions count, at least towards an answer that he would like to receive.

“It’s a village a few days’ travel from Masadora.”

Ah. That would make sense.

The rest of their conversation blurs in Killua’s mind. He’s still confused, still reaching for answers he can’t grasp without immediately questioning the validity behind them. He wants to be positive in the potential truths that the courier will tell him, upon an exchange that they’ve created for themselves.

_If I play his game, we’ll be on the same page._

Then, the mage breathes a faint sigh. He knows that he if he wants to receive the exact same rewards from Gon as the other is expecting of him, they will have to exchange questions and stories of equal measure. Something that relates to laws of equivalence that Killua had been forced to study for years as a mage apprentice beneath the eyes of his warlock brother. Illumi had instilled countless rules and instructions in his mind through personal and distant teachings, though Killua knew that this very rule stretched to people as well as scientific and magical standards.

If Gon is going to tell him the entire truth, he will be expecting something in return.

_That’s assuming he chooses to be logical about it._

Killua resists rolling his eyes. He doesn’t want Gon to pester him about what he’s thinking, about the war going on in his head and how difficult it would be to explain how conflicted he is.

_I have no choice at the moment._

“I’ll tell you…” Killua begins, then slowly turns his head to lock eyes with Gon. He ignores the instant shudder that spreads through his bones at the glimmer in Gon’s toothy smile, the gentle caress of nearby firelight illuminating his sunkissed skin a brilliant bronze hue. His tongue almost ties into knots before he can allow the rest of his request to spill out into the open: “You tell me the truth, the _whole_ truth.” He draws in one long, painful breath. “And I’ll tell you about what happened to those four hundred people at the Ivory Gates.”

The words feel forbidden on his tongue. He’d seen the blood, the battle-strewn earth riddled with lightning strikes. The impending promise of a larger war gleaming on the horizon, the silhouettes of his only living relative—the dark warlock, his brother—standing beside him. Encouraging him to _move_ , delivering commands as easily as taking a step. The Ivory Gates—a territory in southern Gorteau, barricaded by mythical white stones said to harbor the souls of the dead. The Gates were where he was arrested for his crimes, where he was made accountable for the sins of a mage who thrived on killing and the exhilaration of snapping one’s fingers and calling forth the power of a storm.

His darkest secret in exchange for the courier’s. This might work.

Gon hesitates at this, and suddenly, his carefree image melts away into something far more vulnerable, as if he’s struggling to even consider the merit behind Killua’s words. “Wait, that’s—”

“You’ve trusted my word for some reason this long. So, why would a mage, who’s been sentenced to death for killing four hundred people at once at twelve years old, talk about this last-second? Well, you sprung your truth on me last-second, so I think this is only fair.”

He nearly chokes on his own words, caught halfway between wanting to take everything back and think of another idea, while another, much smaller, much more intimate part of him desperately needs to see what the courier will say next.

“You mean…” Gon’s eyes swim between levels of darkness and light. Even without the power of a mage, the courier’s ability to render Killua speechless with just one look frustrates him. “You weren’t the one who—”

 _He’s already jumping to conclusions_ , Killua thinks. Yet, Gon’s words die on his tongue as the door to the house swings open and blasts off its hinges, slamming into the stone wall parallel to Gon’s body. In that instant, Killua jerks up instinctively, mentally screaming at the horrible pain already coursing through his frayed arms, though he’s not fast enough to beat the courier. Gon leaps to his feet as soon as the door moves, as if sensing what was coming before it even happened. He stands protectively in front of Killua’s bed, the mage watching in utter bafflement as his courier brings his balled fists to his sides, one foot in front of the other in a preparatory, combative stance.

It was instinctive. Animalistic.

Killua’s stomach lurches at this thought. He shakes his head, struggling to see through his blotched vision as heavy, thickset footsteps enter the premises. Gon’s form goes from tense to lax in seconds, and once Killua listens to the courier’s gentle sigh of relief, Killua knows that whatever just happened isn’t worth his extra effort to move.

“It’s a baby briarhorn,” says Gon.

Killua’s brow furrows at the name. Then, Gon moves from his bedside, and from his angle Killua spots an animal very similar to a wildebeest wrangling its massive bone horns against the door, smashing it repeatedly into the stone wall. The mage stiffens as Gon manages to get close enough to the creature to easily be impaled by those thick, curved tusks and horns. It’s barely tall enough to reach Gon’s knees, but the courier levels himself with it to gently bring one hand across its deep brown flank.

The mage is compelled into silence as he watches the courier tenderly restrain the creature, even as it releases startled, wheezing noises. It reminds Killua of river otters, their warbles and chirps often evaporating into more coherent snorts and other gruff noises when surrounded by others in their clan.

He’d seen many of them as a boy, wandering the wilderness borders against his brother’s wishes, but he’s never seen a small beast like this one. It’s almost grotesquely shaped, like a warthog, with a strangely long snout rimmed with gray and black stripes over reddish-brown layers of coarse, thick fur. Folds of skin cover its eyes, though the massive horns jutting out from where Killua would normally assume to be ears are curved around in loops, finishing with a straight tip at the end, as if mounted with spear points.

And even now, Gon is tenderly removing the broken door fragments from the frightened creature’s horns. He whispers to it, tenderly patting its flank.

“That’s a _baby_?” Killua snorts, scrunching his brow in an attempt to decipher what this animal could possibly be related to.

_He’s calming it down like it’s just a small cat or something._

“You’re so weird. How are you even doing that?”

“Adult briarhorns are bigger than horses and are much harder to train for fieldwork than calves.” Gon glances over his shoulder to smile at Killua, as if this is supposed to answer a dozen new questions the mage has thought of in the last few seconds. “She’s just scared. I saw some of the farmers outside working with them and training them to help till the fields. My aunt Mito used to have a really old one when I was younger.” He laughs, the sound ringing like bells in Killua’s ears. He stiffens at this, but continues to listen regardless. “Her name was Bess.”

“Alright,” the mage replies. “So, take her out, then.”

“I will. She just has to calm down first. Something must have frightened her.” Gon stands up, tenderly patting the briarhorn’s head. “I guess we’ll have to fix the door, too.”

Killua groans, but nods. He knows that Gon somehow managed to secure them a humble place in this tiny village for a few days. It would be ridiculous for them to leave without at least repairing the door to one of the homes they’re allowed to borrow.

 _Ugh. You’re getting soft_ , Killua thinks, grumbling.

Gon comes over to his side, the baby briarhorn obediently following him and nudging the backs of his knees. The courier laughs and strokes its horns, earning a delighted mewling noise from the strange creature. Killua raises an eyebrow at this, then lifts his gaze to the courier’s.

“Feeling good enough to help me do some fieldwork?” Gon’s smirk is nothing short of infectious.

Killua bites his lip to prevent his own smirk from coming to life.

* * *

 

 

* * *

“Courier, for the _last time_ , I know what I’m doing!”

Gon’s disapproving stare is enough to anger the mage to no end. But now, standing beside the irritating, child-like bastard in the middle of a large, partially tilled field with a blistering sun scorching their shoulders and necks, he decides that he’d rather challenge his brother to an arm-wrestling competition than listen to how he’s apparently horrible at tilling fields.

“Killua, you’re swinging the hoe like you’re trying to murder the ground! It’s not an axe, you know,” says Gon, though his amusement is clear as day.

Killua growls and avoids his stare, slamming the hoe into the ground and watching tufts of fresh soil fly off on impact. He flips over the farming tool, glancing around him at the wagons being pulled off the neighboring fields filled to the sides with healthy crops. He lifts his hand to wipe a growing sheen of sweat from his brow, glaring up at the sun. He knows he’ll be terribly sunburnt later, but it’s refreshing to be able to walk freely outside, even with his magical state almost completely depleted for however long. The power he’d felt the other day when fighting Gon was not a familiar sensation, and shouldn’t have existed, though he ended up paying back the result tenfold upon maximizing his own limits.

“You should just watch me.”

Killua snorts, rolling his eyes. “I can learn it fine by mys—,” he stops, turning just slightly to meet the courier’s expectantly amused stare. But, Gon was already removing his shirt, bunching up the cloth and tossing it to the side of the fields. Killua’s mind blanks for a solid few seconds, long before he even has the opportunity to note how toned and defined Gon’s sun-bronzed skin truly is beneath his layers of traveling garments. Sweat slathers the courier’s upper body, gleaming beneath the sunlight.

Heat slithers up Killua’s neck and explodes onto his cheeks. He quickly averts his eyes, blinking one too many times to adjust back into his surroundings. He releases a low, guttural growl and mentally kicks himself for even allowing that easy Gon Freecss trick. He should be warier of the other’s antics by now, especially given the courier hasn’t even noticed and the mage can tell he’s working again with the sound of the other’s own farming tool slamming into the soil.

“You have no shame, do you?” Killua calls, pointedly not turning away from his one focused spot on the ground beneath him. He swings the hoe propped on his shoulder and slams it into the dirt, pulling and forcefully creating the patterns he wants to match with the hundreds of other tilling lines that the village folk had created beforehand.

“Huh?”

 _There’s no way he doesn’t know_. _He's_ _doing this on purpose. He has to be._

“Sure, Courier, ‘you should just watch me.’ Don’t act like I don’t know what you’re trying to do!” Killua snaps, adding yet another horribly rendered line into the soil. He grimaces and drags one hand down his face. Even though his back is to the courier and both of them are working on their own individual lines.

_Stupid courier. Trying to make fun of me. Trying to distract me—_

He pauses and shakes his head. “He’s _not_ distracting,” he whispers out loud.

Killua certainly does not expect Gon’s face to abruptly pop in front of him. The mage releases a rather unmanly yelp and stumbles back several places, barely keeping his balance with his heel twisting and lodging into the ground. His skin darkens at the fact that the courier is much closer now, and in addition to a risen eyebrow and a rather self-satisfying, egotistical smirk, Gon is still very much shirtless.

“Who’s not distracting?” Gon asks, bringing the hoe he’s using in front of him, sticking it into the ground and placing his folded hands and chin on top of the stick’s end. “Don’t tell me that the all-powerful _Killua Zaoldyk_ is…” He tilts his head slightly, “ _embarrassed_.”

Then, the bastard _winks_. Killua’s too mortified to even come up with a proper response.

“Y-You—,” the mage sputters. “You know exactly what you’re doing! You’re just in denial!”

“Hm. I dunno, Killua. I’m just doing farm work. I think the only one here in denial is you.” Gon bursts into laughter as Killua practically tears out his hair in frustration.

“Don’t test me, Courier,” says Killua.

“Aw, I’m just joking with you. It’s not like we haven’t talked like this before.” Gon’s eyes shimmer with mirth. “It’s a beautiful day. We’re doing farm work for a kind village that’s letting us stay here for a little bit. We both know a little bit more about each other. Why not enjoy it while it’s here?”

Killua’s mouth is already open to snap back at Gon for just about anything he was saying, but at hearing this, he closes it in surprise. He hadn’t even considered how different their ways of thinking really were, and it was more evident now, with how Gon was able to smile serenely and gladly volunteer himself to tilling fields for a local village. How he was willing to blatantly tease Killua and address him as something far outside their social boundaries. He doesn’t understand why he’s not used to the unfamiliar ways at this point, even after all that’s happened.

“I will never understand the way you think,” Killua finally says.

Gon shrugs. “That’s okay. I don’t understand yours either.” The courier’s smile falters in its confidence, but only slightly. Killua watches as the courier boldly takes another step forward, and then another, as if testing the new distance between them. The mage stubbornly holds his ground, even as Gon ends up far too close for his liking, his bare skin almost glowing with health and heat beneath the sun’s rays. “But,” says Gon, his smile returning, dimples fresh and altogether endearing on both sides of his handsome face, “I want to understand.”

For just a moment, Killua remembers the way Gon pressed his body against his in the dark comfort of the inn, his cheeks rosy with alcohol, eyes glittering with secrets he secretly wished to pull out of the shadows and swallow up as if offered in a crystal glass.

 _Stop_ , the mage thinks, a sudden jolt snapping him back to reality. He steps away from the courier, ignoring how easily Gon turns crestfallen in a matter of seconds.

“Do you remember?” Killua asks.

Gon’s expression blanks. He gently says his farming tool off to the side, brushing down his trousers and fixing Killua with a perplexed, curious look. He looks ten years younger almost instantly, as if he were a child discovering what it means to be a living, breathing human for the first time.

“Remember…?” Gon inquires.

Killua searches him for any sign he’s lying, or if he’s actually unaware of what transpired a few nights before. He can understand many of Gon’s expressions, down to the slightest difference in his numerous smiles, chuckles, frowns, glares… masks.

“That night. In the inn. I carried you to the room and paid out of your pocket because you decided to get drunk for some reason.” Killua cards one hand through his locks, sighing. “You…” He groans, refusing to acknowledge the harsh, burning redness staining his cheeks. His fists clench and bunch the fabric of his own pants, rugged and slashed to a state of being hardly recognizable. When he looks up, he sees that Gon is not smiling anymore, but silent.

His lips are drawn in a thin line, his gaze open and glued to Killua as if he’s the most fascinating target on the planet.

“What do you think I wanted to do, Killua?”

Killua’s eyes widen. He’d braced himself for many questions, but none of them were related to even that inkling of a possibility. He hadn’t prepared himself in a way that made him think that the courier would actually bother to ask something so daring, something that neither of them would ever admit into the open.

“I…” Killua swallows. “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t.

_You do._

He has no idea.

_You’re afraid._

The courier knows.

_So do you._

“Ah.”

Killua frowns at this reaction. The courier removes his stare from Killua, turning his attention to the lines they’ve tilled into the soil. The sun still beats harshly on their backs. Gently twining trees surrounding the tiny hovels that make up the village shimmer and shift in the breeze. It’s unusually warm today for fall, still directly on the cusp of the next moon cycle. Would they still be traveling in this confusing trail alongside each other once winter swarmed the Four Kingdoms?

Silence settles over the clearing. The occasional trotting of hooves from the nearby briarhorns and a waving citizen or two are the only noises that shatter the tense atmosphere. Killua watches as the courier seemingly becomes lost in his own realm of thinking, his brow furrowed and lips tightly formed in a straight line, but his intentions are lost in the bubbling sea of gold that make up his eyes.

“Do you drink, Killua?”

The mage scoffs at the question. To his surprise, however, Gon looks completely serious. “Part of training as a mage requires a definitive built tolerance for alcohol. Thought you would know that, being an Arcane and everything.” He shrugs. “So, no, I don’t. There’s no point to it.”

Gon considers this, nodding. “Hm. Interesting.”

Killua raises an eyebrow. “You’re smirking.”

“Eh? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You are. You’re a horrible liar.” Killua snorts and rolls his eyes. “Stop trying to be clever. It doesn’t suit you. Trying to outclass a mage in this way won’t win you any favors anytime soon.”

Gon brightens, grinning far too happily for the mage’s liking. “Tonight, we should celebrate with a drink or two. Some of the merchants who travelled through here had some interesting rice-based wines and ales for purchase, so I grabbed two.” His fond grin lingers, a shadow of something bigger and brighter than Killua can perceive. “You know, two in case you wanted to change your mind and join me.”

Killua studies him, quiet. It was true that his aversion to alcohol would allow him to enjoy it without sacrificing his mind, but from what he tasted as a child he understood that each sample almost always tasted terrible, like how he imagined stale seawater infused with glue and vinegar would taste when sloshed around in a bottle.

“Celebrate what, exactly?” Killua challenges.

Gon’s lips twitch. Mischief underlines his expression, and as Killua tries to read him, he doesn’t miss the way Gon’s eyes slowly run from Killua’s foot-wraps to the top of his crown of silver-white hair.

It’s slow, tantalizing, and the message is both loud and clear and lost in the fray of Killua’s jumbled mind. He’s not sure why his body freezes beneath such a scrutinizing stare, as if the courier isn’t even planning how his gaze lingers and waits on certain areas. It lasts less than ten seconds, but each moment feels agonizingly long, like watching long fingers scratch markings onto stone.

Gon smiles widely once more, flashing his unfairly white teeth. “For not killing each other just yet.”

Killua’s heart hums underneath his skin. He’s half-tempted to pinch himself to draw him back into reality, but hearing the courier’s response is enough.

“Whatever.”

His tongue twists around itself and holds before he can even will it to stop, and with the annoying glare of amusement overtaking Gon’s strong jaw and luminescent eyes, the mage knows that he’s being toyed with.

“So that’s a yes, then,” says Gon.

Killua swallows. “Not like I have a choice.”

He hates how dry his throat has become.

* * *

 

 

* * *

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see! There’s this place I saw on the way here that I wanted to show you before we left.”

Killua trails behind the courier, confused as to why he’s being so obedient, but doing so nonetheless.

The first hours of dusk sweep and billow above the humble trees surrounding them, autumn fruits ripe and faded in various shades of pinks, oranges, blues and browns. He longs to reach up and take one of the fruits in his hands and experiment with them, wondering if they’re harvested every day by the villagers before winter overtakes these very trees and withers the fruits almost instantly.

Unlike the Wilds, these trees are thin and almost skeletal in appearance, their branches weaving into one another like braids of hair, strung through with dark tufts of moss and blooming seasonal flowers. He slows his pace, relishing the coolness of the evening breeze, swiftly rolling through his sleeves and billowing briskly around his new trousers.

He stares ahead at Gon’s back. The courier is wearing his usual clothes, his green cloak cascading behind him in near-dramatic flair, his spiked hair just as wild as ever yet slightly relaxed from the hard work they’d put into the day on the fields. His boots create obvious echoes in the underbrush, and the more they climb and weave into the diverting paths from Villenov and the Amber Road, the more Killua finds that the courier, even now, is still full of surprises.

 _He really shouldn’t have bought me anything_ , the mage thinks, rolling his eyes.

He would never admit to the courier just how elated he is to not be wearing the same rags he’d been forced into the moment he’d been taken from the prison fortress miles and miles from the Amber Road. Yet, the long-sleeved shirt is loose, a crisp navy-blue in color, and loosened with drawstrings near the collar that resemble more of a pirate’s shirt than anything else. His trousers are firm and similar to Gon’s, the material thick enough to wade through swamps and loose enough to be enjoyed walking through the village when the sun began to vanish behind the clouds. The moccasins feel heavy on his feet, but are a welcome shield against the tough pebbles and thorns lining the paths he’d already taken. He’d ignored the need to replace his torn foot-wraps just to anger Gon.

He smirks at the image of Gon glaring at him and refusing to “burn the moccasins” as Killua had kindly suggested.

“We’re here,” says Gon.

Killua sighs and begrudgingly follows his steps, tempted to place his hands in his pockets and ignore the fact that he’s incapable of casting any lightning or even reciting a proper mantra. The touch of magic that usually runs heavy in his veins is faded, just barely there to let him know that it exists, but not enough for him to be comfortable with it.

Killua steps through the final barrier of twining branches and leaves, and stops. His jaw falls open, staring past Gon’s broadly smiling face to the vision before them.

The clearing and brief strip of woodlands open up to a cliff side, the slope ending just a few yards from where they are standing. Mountaintops streak the horizon in faded blues and muted whites, thousands of trees spiraling towards the skies and scattered in a swaying, rippling dark green sea. Countless stars dapple the night sky like a splash of crystals, casting faint shots of light around the glare of a brilliant waning moon. Villages and cities of varying sizes, shapes, and painted in explosions of shades and color appear like markings on a map.

Killua turns slightly to see Gon’s expression, but stops. His voice loses itself in his throat, taking in how the courier’s profile is swathed in a fresh layer of silver light. His cloak billows behind him, carried by the gentle winds. The smile on his face is serene, calm, and unlike any other smile Killua has seen from his forced traveling companion.

“I had a feeling it would look even better at night,” says Gon.

Killua closes his mouth, gulping. Sweat gathers in his palms. “It’s…”

_Overwhelming. Perfect. Awful. Why would you bring me here?_

He can’t identify the terrifically horrible pain grappling his chest and pushing his insides in distorted shapes.

He’s never seen anything like this, never been to a place as beautiful as this, and has certainly never been invited to accompany anyone to a location like this one.

He remembers spotting illustrations in his textbooks, admiring the dozens of constellations mapped out in the sky, the swift churning of the oceans where unspeakable creatures moved and thrived beneath the surface.

At the time, this struck him as the extent of what he could glimpse. What he was allowed to witness.

But now, Killua knows that those childish pictures and dreams frozen in time beneath his tracing finger never rendered him as breathless as what he was drinking in now. 

“Killua?”

Killua stiffens, horrified at the unfamiliar wetness prickling the backs of his eyes. He furiously rubs at the tears threatening to burst, his skin becoming raw in seconds. He turns away from Gon, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets and momentarily marveling at how soft the new material feels. It serves as a decent distraction from the way Gon is looking at him.

“It’s nice,” he mumbles, flexing his jaw.

He sneaks a glance at Gon, and instantly regrets it. The way Gon’s eyebrows raise to his hairline and the startled frown consuming his features instantly makes something inside Killua’s stomach drop. He wants to look away from that scared, guilty look, as if somehow the courier, in this moment, is responsible for the mysterious pain Killua is trying to hide.

“Killua, you’re crying.”

“I’m _not_ crying,” Killua growls. “Shut up.”

“Did I do something wrong? Why are you upset?”

Killua snorts and rolls his eyes. “Don’t even pretend to care—”

“I _do_ care!”

Killua jumps. He stares, unblinkingly, at the suddenly angry scowl Gon is throwing at him, made even more apparent by the glowing fire dancing in his amber-honey irises. His fists are visibly balled and tight at his sides, frustration bristling over his skin as if it’s naturally an extension of who he is.

The mage watches, silent. Gon slowly simmers, facing him so defiantly it almost blinds Killua.

He almost laughs at the ridiculousness of it all. But nothing is more tragic and amusing to him than the fact that he knows that Gon's role is as meaningful as ants stomped beneath his feet.

He bites his tongue. 

_I should have expected this..._

Whenever he turns, Gon follows him.

Whenever he refuses to answer a question, Gon persists.

Whenever he shows a negative emotion, Gon is determined to reverse the effects.

“Hey.” Killua forces the word out between clenched teeth, but he knows that it will be worth it. He notices Gon relax slightly at his instigation, the courier’s gaze thoughtful and harsh as it focuses on the grass lining the slopes. “Give me one of the bottles.”

Gon glances at him again. Though, this time, his smirk is replaced by a mask of skepticism. It frustrates Killua, forcing his stomach into somersaults for the second time that evening.

“Are you sure?”

“I have a tolerance to all alcohol, Courier. Just give it to me.”

Gon pauses for a moment. Then, he nods, removing one of the smaller bottles, no bigger than Killua’s forearm. The glass is tinted a deep carnelian, promising something sweet and fruity.

The courier tosses the bottle to Killua, who snatches it out of the air with ease. He watches as Gon takes out the remaining glass bottle, tinted a normal mahogany. He rips off the cork with his teeth and, without looking to see Gon’s reaction, tilts his head back and drinks.

The burning, scorching liquid slips down his throat in glorious, heavy waves. He finishes it quickly, lowering it from his mouth and swiping his tongue over his bottom lip to be rid of the leftover sugary flavor. It reminds him of fermented cranberries, mixed with a stinging, richly fragrant array of cucumbers and cracked black pepper. It’s unlike anything he’s ever tasted.

“See? No effects.” Killua shrugs. “No big deal. What a big letdown. For a second I thought you were going to show me the wonders of the universe, but no, you just wanted to get me drunk.” He turns to Gon, one eyebrow risen. “Was that your goal?”

Gon is observing him, picking apart his facial features like an inventor inspecting a gear. Without glancing away from Killua, he uncorks his own bottle.

Killua’s eyes widen as Gon tilts his head back and drinks the entirety of the bottle. The mage’s brow furrows even after the courier finishes, wiping his sleeve across his mouth before turning with a triumphant smile gracing his features.

“I’m no lightweight, Killua.”

“That’s…” Killua frowns. “You… you were hungover, though.”

Gon shrugs. “That was mostly from using my Arcane blood too much in one sitting. I don’t usually go into episodes that last that long, at least not intentionally.” His smile is secretive, sly, even. Even once he approaches Killua’s side, carefully keeping a few inches between them. He then lowers himself to the ground, and pats the spot beside him.

Killua glares, hoping that the moonlight won’t expose his darkening skin. “I’m not a dog.”

“Sit with me, Killua.” Gon’s smile is too bright.

_Fuck._

Killua grumbles under his breath, then reluctantly does as the courier requests. For a moment, silence drifts between them. Killua is all too aware of the courier’s presence beside him, and he knows how strong and powerfully chiseled he is now beneath his cloak, shirt, and trousers.

The mage turns to look at Gon, who is smiling, his legs crossed and his elbows propped on his knees. He turns, and locks eyes with Killua. A strange jolt rushes through Killua’s body at the way Gon’s eyes darken.

“Courier,” whispers Killua. His voice is hoarse. His throat is dry. “Why did you bring me here?”

It’s not the question he wants to ask. There are countless others, so many more that he would rather bring to his attention. The two of them are alone, given the perfect opportunity to expose their darkest secrets to satisfy the other person. So why would he settle for this?

“If I tell you, you’ll get mad,” says Gon.

Killua blinks and snorts. “Whatever. You already make me angry. We’re enemies, after all, whether you want to believe that or not. We can’t keep up this weird charade forever.”

Gon shakes his head at this, turning to stare at the horizon. His smile is still there.

“Well, there are a lot of reasons why I brought you here. Here, we can talk openly about things.” Gon’s grin is too self-satisfying to make Killua even feel a little bit relieved that this was the courier’s intentions. Though, Gon’s words are never as straightforward as they seem to be. “I owe you some answers, and we agreed to the usual bargain.” He then turns, and once again, those eyes find Killua’s, and this time, the mage’s heart backflips in his chest before he can control it.

“… Courier?”

Gon’s smile softens. Something new washes over him in a caressing embrace. Unseen, but felt.  

Killua sees it, knows it,  _memorizes it_ , as a gesture clearer than the night sky.

“I also brought you here because,” Gon says, gesturing with one arm over the view displayed before them. “All of this,” he whispers, sturdy as stone and light as the sun, “reminds me of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: [ 7/17/2017 ]
> 
> AH. GUYS. My wonderful and amazing beta Shawnathin93 did an AMAZING JOB with grammatical changes, suggestions, and edits for this chapter. He's the reason that this is much more pleasing to the eyes. :D Bless your soul, my friend! 
> 
> Also added some other changes so hope you enjoy regardless!


	9. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A story for a story...

Gon has always believed nature to be a god in its own right.

He believed stones left unturned off the side of the road were missed opportunities. He never left a fishing spot until he caught exactly what he wanted. He’d climbed mountains with as little food and water as possible to prove a point to those who doubted him. He’d dedicated his childhood to raising birds with broken wings and foxbear cubs with chipped claws under his aunt’s roof, simply because he believed it was the right thing to do. He’d scouted hundreds of fields with his aunt during their travels in the far west, purchasing only the freshest ingredients for medicines and cooking recipes. 

Gon knew his methods were unorthodox, and he knew this was a fact he’d grown accustomed to after being told he was like this for years. His own father never denied these claims, insinuating that, perhaps, their reckless paths became intertwined for a reason when neither person intended on seeing the other.

Gon was the type of person to dismiss ingredients for recipes when slaving away in the barrack kitchens, warming the stomachs of reluctant soldiers—heroes, husbands, sons, fathers—subjected to the blood-strewn walls of the trenches. He was the type of soldier to ignore his commander’s direct orders and charge straight into battle with one gun loosely strapped to his back and his soul roaring in anger—a temperament that balanced on a thin string.

A string that rarely snapped.

With a whimsical hum in his throat and a bounce in his step, Gon can hardly keep his eyes off Killua long before they reach the slopes. He sneaks glances in the dark, watching how the new clothes he’d bought the mage fit so perfectly on him. He’d feel dishonorable for ogling him, and he hadn’t wanted to give Killua that impression, but his fascination extends far beyond just the outline of Killua’s slender frame and the way he holds back awkward laughs when he doesn’t want to admit that Gon told a funny story.

The courier is careful when absorbing how comfortable his companion looks. He times himself well, each step he takes in the underbrush accented by the gentle thrumming of crickets and nocturnal birdsong. He quirks a smile when appropriate from the hidden paths that branch off the Amber Road, usually when Killua quips and grins secretly in the shadows. His voice—so clear and crisp and crystal, like a blade of ice in the night—shatters the gap of silence that lingers between them in loose strides.

Gon welcomes it every time.

And now, Killua is staring at him as if he’d admitted to harboring the soul of a drunk troll.

“W-What?”

Gon looks back from the stars, turning to meet Killua’s gaping face.

Porcelain skin dusted in rosy pink. Freckles popping like stardust.

Heat spreads through Gon’s skin, gentle and easy to miss, but he knows it’s there. He suppresses it and turns away from the mage’s slack-jawed, reddened face. He bites the inside of his cheek to prevent his smile from stretching too wide; the joy of seeing Killua like this, so vulnerable and open and flustered, ignites a miniscule piece of him that grows larger and larger with each passing day.

“It’s true,” says Gon, only half-listening to Killua’s awkward spluttering. “What part of this doesn’t seem like you?”

“You can’t… y-you can’t just say things like that, you idiot!” Killua barks.

Gon laughs, shaking his head to himself as he uncrosses his legs and stretches them out in front of him. The cool night breeze drifts over their forms, ruffling Killua’s moon-kissed hair. It’s strange, knowing that someone could even be human and resemble a child of the moon and stars.

Gon holds back a chuckle at this—Killua would only get more frustrated if he kept complimenting him, but that, Gon believes, is part of the best aspect of knowing the mage.

“You’re pretty set on me just never telling you the truth, then,” says Gon.

Killua’s brow furrows. He scoffs with a sharp roll of his eyes and faces forward, crossing his arms over his chest. The stiffness in his shoulders and legs lessen slightly. Gon can feel the hesitation between them, as thick and dense as hinterland sand.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Killua.

Gon perks up and turns, his ear twitching.

“Oh! I hear something.”

Killua snorts. “Good to know your hearing isn’t ruined. Gods, never answers the fucking question…”

Gon, for once, isn’t paying attention to the mage’s muttering. He squints through the darkness, trailing over the thousands of trees, the swirling misted crowns of the mountains on the horizon, and allows a massive grin to spread across his face. He turns to Killua, and before the mage can open his mouth, Gon winks and brings a finger to his lips.

Killua frowns, but begrudgingly nods. Gon smirks at this and turns back around, leaning halfway towards Killua and extending one pointed finger towards the mountain to their left, swallowing up the miles and miles of tinted moss and withered trees. Killua instinctively recoils at the close proximity between them, and Gon is barely able to contain his amusement at the other’s reaction to him, but he keeps his body still and composed.

Then, the ground trembles. A thunderous, echoing rhythm crackles through the air like electric whips. Something large and white and rippling with ink-black and frosty white streaks rises over the treetops. It swerves and dances through the night sky, ascending towards the mountain with outstretched, obsidian talons. The creature is large and slender, streamlined in shape and strung through with feathers glistening in silver, white and threads of black. The wings are massive, stretching out and clapping and slicing through the air like silent blades. Its tail trails behind it in a liquid river of wintry feathers, fringed in steely gray and blinding silver.

Gon turns his head to face Killua. The mage’s eyes are wide, his jaw loose. He sounds almost as if he’s stopped breathing, absorbing every detail of the mysterious creature as it sails through the darkened sky, like a white spear soaring through waves of black and blue sand.

“It’s a—”

“A moonbeam hawk…”

Gon blinks and turns to Killua, his smile softening as he tilts his head. “You’ve seen one before?”

Killua slowly shakes his head, still not taking his eyes off the creature even as it continues moving away. His throat bobs, as if he’s swallowing the dryness in his throat. Gon watches him, waiting, wondering what the mage is thinking in the quiet pauses between them.

“I… didn’t think they were real…” Killua shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes. “Dammit.”

Gon bites his lip. “Are you crying again, Killua?”

“Shut. _Up_.” The mage shoots an icy glare towards the courier. “I swear, if you say that again, I’ll push you off this cliff and laugh as you break every single bone in your body. And I won’t come to help you. I’ll take your wagon and finally take off and masquerade as a courier. I might even take your last name. No one would believe I was Ging Freecss’ son, though.”

Gon barks out a laugh. “Hah, you wouldn’t leave me behind, Killua.”

“Really? Want to test it?” Killua smirks, and Gon blinks at the slick, devilish grin that overtakes the other’s lips. His heart stutters at this new side to the mage, even with the playful glint that shines in Killua’s eyes like another set of stars.

The courier’s grin grows. “You know, there are other ways to take on last names.”

Killua blinks, his brow furrowing at the statement. Gon hums a little to himself, propping his chin on the upturned side of his palm. Then, at seeing the frustration on Killua’s face from apparently not piecing two and two together, the courier leans over, so close that he can smell the leftover pine and musk from Killua’s bath.

“You really wouldn’t mind being called _Killua Freecss_?”

Killua jumps and roughly shoves Gon away from him. The courier laughs and holds his hands up as Killua turns an unfathomable shade of red, bristling from head to toe like a perturbed kitten. The only way Gon can describe the look Killua is donning like a ferocious mask is _mortification_.

“Y-You—ah, just—shut up! Just be quiet! Are you _possessed_?”

Gon clicks his tongue, restraining every urge in his body to reach out and run his hand through Killua’s curls. He falls back on this often, wondering what kind of reaction he would get in return.

“I might be,” says Gon, barely above a whisper.

He blinks at his own words, watching as Killua turns darker by the second, barely seeable beneath the natural light of the moon and stars. He watches Gon, searching his expression, as if attempting to pick apart what’s possibly going through the courier’s mind. Gon gradually welcomes this searching stare, his lips twitching into another smile, crooked and lilted.

“… So.” Killua straightens and turns away from him. “You promised to tell me the whole truth. Remember the rules.” He rolls his eyes. “Story for a story.”

Gon dips his head.

“I know.”

He shifts away from Killua, putting considerable distance between them. He inwardly kicks himself for even considering reaching out and brushing his fingers against Killua’s, pushing aside the curious notion of what would happen if he did exactly that.

He would never allow Killua to glimpse past his smiles to read the story hidden in his mind. He would rather drop hints and allow the mage to figure it out all on his own; the way Killua processed his surroundings and asked questions made Gon all the more intent on dragging his story out. He enjoyed the mage’s reactions, thrived on the strange tension that strung them together and pulled them apart, riddled with forbidden thoughts and urges that he knew his father would chastise him for.

_I owe him._

He closes his eyes, inhales, and slowly releases his breath with a small smile. He looks over the cliff side, finding one particular village to focus on while he gathers his thoughts.

“It was true that the King requested for me as a courier.” He shrugs. “Everyone involved in the Rebellion was labeled as a war criminal and banished from the Red Plains. You know, the trenches.” He turns to Killua, who nods slowly, flicking his head as a gesture for him to continue. Gon sighs. “Everyone involved in that battle was destined to become a courier. Ging explained it as… a way, for the survivors of the Rebellion to be dealt with through more torturous means. King Meruem considered it to be better to have a drawn-out, miserable fate for his worst offenders than to just have them executed.”

Gon allows the words to sink in. His brow furrows at the sensation of saying these words aloud, these secrets he’d been sworn under oath to protect to the grave. He should feel angrier at his own betrayal to those he trusted with his life, but being beside Killua awoke something inside him that beckoned and coaxed these secrets out into the open, as if the mage was still able to cast a spell he wasn’t yet familiar with.

He interweaves his fingers. Thumbs rubbing against each other.

His friends. Were they waiting for him, still? Were they alive?

“Courier.”

Gon blinks. He winces, and looks down, where he’s scraped cuts into his thumbs with his nails. Raw skin peeks out, red and stinging like fresh blisters. He grimaces and quickly flashes a smile at the mage, reluctantly making eye contact.

“Sorry, Killua. Just trying to remember all the details. I’ll keep going.”

He clears his throat and stares back ahead, but he knows that Killua is still staring. Still watching him. He imagines a stern frown dressing the other’s lips, though Killua would never voice his concerns. He would never ask him if he’s faring well, not with the pride he kept as a cold, frigid blanket.

“It doesn’t bother me,” says Gon, “these memories, I mean. It’s not always this jumbled.” He doesn’t wait for a response, keeping his gaze focused and intense on the mountains and trees set before them, like a canvas awaiting another stroke of a paint brush. “So, when I received the letter ordering me to transport you, of all criminals, across the country and to Antokiba, I knew that we had a chance. Ging knew the letter was coming before I even did, and told me to recruit you and take you to our hidden regime in Aedorin, even though I told him that it would be too forward and obvious and it wasn’t fair to not let you know beforehand—”

“ _Courier_.”

Gon’s story cuts off, glancing down to the silver-pale hand that has latched onto his wrist. Electricity drifts into his skin at the contact, simmering into a serene, watery sensation that spreads through his arm and releases a new series of signals in his brain.

His eyes bulge out of his sockets, staring in mild fascination at the long, surprisingly delicate fingers, how quickly and earnestly they grip him as if he’s another lifeline. He follows the hand, up the toned, smooth arm, to Killua’s stern, frozen expression, eyes unreadable and large and focused.

Gon’s mind blanks.

“You don’t even realize you’re doing it.”

The courier frowns. “Eh?”

Killua rolls his eyes. Suddenly, the mage shifts to move in front of Gon. The courier reels back his head, startled at how strangely comfortable the other male has apparently become out of nowhere. Killua’s glare softens, intently taking Gon’s hands in his.

“Killua…?” Gon asks.

The mage shakes his head. “You’re going to destroy your hands if you keep doing that.”

Gon frowns. “I don’t—”

“Ugh. Would you quit staring at me for one second and actually look at what I’m talking about?” Killua snaps, but his tone is harshly quiet and urgent.

Gon blinks and dips his head, scanning over where Killua is prodding and opening Gon’s calloused, war-touched fingers. Numerous scars trail down his knuckles and swerve through his palms, intertwining and spreading out like crossroads. He’s seen these markings numerous times, often unaware of how his nails bite into his skin and break vessel after vessel.

His breath hitches, unbelieving.

Killua is so close to him, the mage tenderly unfurling his fingers and tracing an observant hand over his thumbs, as if dissecting the situation and brainstorming possible scenarios. Gon has seen the look cross Killua’s face many times, though not once had he considered the possibility that Killua would have this look when it came to _him_.

“You’re a war criminal, then,” says Killua. He doesn’t look up to meet Gon’s eyes as he gradually scoots back. Gon looks up, mesmerized at the distance, knowing that if he moved just a few inches further, his knees would brush Killua’s.

It’s almost torturous.

“Yeah.” Gon’s throat is dry. “I swore an oath to refrain from telling you the truth until we arrived.”

Killua snorts. “What’s the point of that?”

He leans forward, resting his chin on his hand as he shoots Gon a wary, hesitant glance. The moon glistens behind him, casting cooling rays upon Killua’s silver-white locks. Gon clandestinely bites into his tongue to convince himself he’s not dreaming.

“It… wasn’t my choice.”

A ghost of a smirk crosses Killua’s lips. “I believed you until now. You don’t follow orders unless you agree with them, Courier.”

Gon’s lips twitch. He mirrors Killua’s stance. The mage, for once, seems unbothered by this, though a slight glimmer of unsureness passes through him.

“I have no intention of harming you, Killua.” Gon searches the other’s eyes, forcing himself not to let himself fall too deeply within those sharp, oceanic depths. “From the moment I met you I wanted to tell you the truth. You had so much power. So much potential to be an ally right away, but I knew I needed to earn your trust before dumping all of this on you.”

Killua seems to consider this for a moment. “That might be true. You’re an asshole, though.”

Gon grins. “You seem to not mind all that much.”

“What gave you that idea?”

“Well, Killua,” Gon begins, feasting off the threads Killua is leaving for him to take in the air. It lingers and thrives and begs for his attention, and suddenly the remaining figments of his story subsides in his conscience. “You haven’t tried escaping yet. So, there must be _something_ you like about me. Preferably with my shirt still on.”

Killua blinks and straightens. “You’re unbelievable,” he growls.

Gon laughs. “Well, there’s plenty I like about you.”

“Stop.” Killua stiffens and looks away.

The courier ponders. He wonders, if this is a good time to test this.

“Your turn, Killua.” Gon grins once the mage turns to him, eyes narrowed and frustrated. “Hey, that was part of the deal. You pretty much made the rules up, you know.”

“I know that, bastard,” mutters Killua. He snorts and refrains from looking directly at Gon. “You didn’t tell me everything, though.”

“Piece by piece.” Gon chuckles at the agitated frown overtaking the mage’s expression.

He wants to tell him so many things, run his fingers through the other male’s hair, tell him just how brightly his hair shines beneath the moon and his eyes are bluer than cornflowers in summer. It pains him, drives something harsh and bitter and cold into his stomach and heart. Still, he can’t identify where it’s coming from, why it bothers him each minute he spends in the mage’s company.

“Fine.” Killua sighs. “Just ask me questions, I guess. That’ll make it easier.”

Gon smirks. “You’re going to let me ask you anything?”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” Killua rolls his eyes.

Gon’s eyes flash. His eyes drift from Killua’s face to his lips, and then straight back to his eyes. The mage catches this, raising one skeptical eyebrow.

“When you were learning to become a mage,” Gon asks, humming, “did anyone kiss you?”

The question sinks into Killua’s mind far slower than the courier had expected it to. Holding back a laugh, Gon nearly keels over once Killua’s face explodes in dashes of red and pink, incoherent spluttering escaping his tightly clasped lips. The mage shakes his head and glares harshly towards Gon, as if struggling on deciding whether or not to follow through with his word and toss him over the cliff.

“W-Why do you even care about that stuff? That’s not—that not what—”

“What I was supposed to ask?” Gon grins as Killua simmers into hot, steaming silence. “I mean, I’m pretty sure I already know the answer. I just think you look cute when you turn red like that. I didn’t even know you had freckles until I made you blush for the first time.” The mage squeaks at this, his eyes popping in horrified pools of slate and blue. Gon laughs, struggling to catch his breath. “K-Killua, you’re so funny!”

Killua drags one hand down his face, groaning in misery. “Unbelievable…”

“Well?” Gon challenges, a spark of mischief flashing in his eyes. He wonders if Killua catches this, even after the mage finally places his hands on his crossed legs, as if actually considering the question. The courier tilts his head, his boastful smile suddenly vanishing. “Eh? You’re taking so long to answer—”

Killua clicks his tongue. Gon blinks. “What, did you think there was no way I could’ve kissed someone? Could’ve been interested in someone?” The mage shrugs, though the dismissive gesture is weak, hardly noticeable under Gon’s hawk-like stare. “Only once, but yes, I have. Was a long time ago, and it didn’t mean anything.”

The former Zaoldyk heir softens, drifting off into his own thoughts. Quietness envelops both mage and courier in a cloud, though Gon’s mind is halfway caught between being blank and confronting possibilities he hadn’t even considered. His fingers subconsciously clench around his own knees, a sudden fire developing in the pit of his stomach.

This… was not the answer he expected—or _wanted_ —at all.

“Ah.” Gon frowns. He cards one hand through his hair.

“Was lonely in that part of the country,” says Killua, as if Gon asked for further explanation.

Though, Gon’s curiosity has already been satiated in that subject. He hadn’t expected Killua to admit to it, and certainly hadn’t prepared himself for an answer that conflicted with his prediction. He had hardly been incorrect about the mage so far, yet it would be foolish to think that he had correctly assumed everything about Killua until this point, right?

“I never have,” says Gon.

Killua, for a second, just one fleeting second, brightens. Then, it vanishes, as any shadow passing over a ravine.

“Who was it?”

The mage blinks, the briefly comfortable atmosphere evaporating instantly.

“What?”

“Who kissed you?”

Gon’s words are more forceful than he’d intended. He’s curious, far too curious for his own good, and he loathes the images that flash in his mind. A younger Killua, destined for incredible things and led down a different direction, allowing himself to be kissed by a faceless form. Someone Gon would never care to come to know.

Someone who isn’t him.

“Why does it matter?” Killua glares. “Why are you suddenly so fascinated with this part of my history? I’m a labeled criminal, who promised to tell you about the Ivory Gates, and you’re asking me about my time as a stupid _child_?”

Gon frowns. “Killua, that’s not—”

The mage growls and suddenly leaps to his feet. The courier instinctively backs away, holding his hands up as if in a defensive stance, though the way Killua trembles and shakes and becomes _one_ with the blinding stars and moon behind him silence the courier and steal his breath right out of his throat. It’s spellbinding, being subjected to this image, and having no way to change it or turn away from it.

Killua points an accusatory finger towards the courier, his jaw clenched and wobbling.

“I was forced to train in the mountains with my older brother, and before you ask, no, I didn’t think there was anything wrong with it. It was all I _knew_. My only way to see past the forests that surrounded the mountains were these old books that my brother left me. I read those books so often, every day, that I memorized every page.”

He releases a harsh, dry laugh, devoid of any softness or joy that Gon wishes he could see finally come into fruition.

“I killed people because I was told to. I didn’t even fight it. I didn’t even ask my brother about the purpose behind it. I didn’t care because I could command storms with a snap of my fingers at five years old. I could paralyze my targets without even looking at them. I could do it, with the more people I killed, and the more crimes I committed with Illumi watching me like some pale shadow…”

He pauses to gather his breath. Gon forces himself to remain quiet.

Killua growls, and finally faces Gon once more. Fresh tears trail down his cheeks, and the sight alone snaps Gon’s heart in half.

“You—Courier, you’re not… you have the most dangerous criminal in the country in your care, and you ask me random questions about my favorite foods, and nurse me back to health after I _try to fucking kill you_ , and—and you… you’re so stupid. You’re so crazy. I don’t even understand how someone like you can exist. You should _hate_ me.”

Gon straightens at this. His previous jealousies vanish in a heartbeat.

“I can’t hate you,” he says.

“Don’t talk! It’s my turn!” Killua snaps.

Gon’s brow furrows at this. He slowly pushes his hands on the ground and gathers his balance, standing up and facing the mage. Killua watches him, hesitation glistening in his eyes like every other time he looks torn between attacking Gon and letting him speak.

“You’re not a war criminal, you idiot. You’re a war _hero_.” Killua’s teeth grit, his words forced through his mouth as if coated in poison.

Gon’s fists clench at his sides. “Killua—”

“You killed evil people. I’ve killed _innocent_ people. Men. Women. I… Courier, I’ve killed _children_ while their parents watched. All those people, in one sitting, and my hands wouldn’t move and I couldn’t _stop_ and it all just happened—”

Killua stammers, his pupils suddenly darting from one side to another. Gon frowns, focusing on how the mage moves, how he’s trembling in the same spot and grappling at his hair and tugging at the silver-licked strands, searching for a lifeline. Any connection to the current world.

He only has a few seconds to process what the mage is telling him, but Gon’s mind operates quickly and without stopping. He repeats the mage’s admission in his mind, picking out the possible clues, inspecting the cracks in the puzzle pieces being offered to him.

Then, his eyes brighten.

If he’s correct…

“Killua.”

“Shut up.”

“You didn’t want to kill those people.”

Gon slowly steps forward, grasping the mage’s wrists. Killua blinks, but his eyes are lost. Faded. Gone. They stare past Gon and into nothing in particular, those hauntingly beautiful irises clouded with something the courier cannot decipher.

“It’s not your fault.”

“You don’t _know_.”

“I do because I’ve never seen you like this before—”

“I’ve killed _so many people_ —”

“And so have I!” Gon snaps.

The mage squirms in his grip. Gon hesitates, knowing that the faraway glimmer in Killua’s eyes have simmered into nothingness.

“I know what you’re going through. I understand. We—Killua, I know you more than you think. I know that you wouldn’t kill those people willingly. I believe that. You can’t convince me otherwise.”

He bites his tongue and holds back a stream of curses. He knows that he has to be correct, that his faith could not possibly be misplaced by another prediction. Killua only shakes his head, combating against something deeply wedged inside his mind. Gon cannot bear to see him like this: fighting, struggling, barricading his heart, his soul, his mind against an invisible force.

The courier braves another step, and tenderly places his forehead to the mage’s. The contact of cold, ivory skin against sunkissed bronze sends tremors through both of their bodies. Gon wills himself to remain strong and brace himself as Killua resists, part of him here, part of him not.

“Please, stay here. I’m here. I’m not leaving you. You’re not alone. Killua won’t be alone.”

Killua trembles. A strong tree bending beneath the weight of even stronger winds.

Gon’s stomach drops. His heart flutters.

“ _I’ll end up killing you if you make me stay_.”

Relief washes through Gon at hearing his voice return. He doesn’t back away from the mage, relishing the close bonding of their minds and hearts. He listens to Killua’s breath rummaging through his chest. He wishes he could place his hand up to Killua’s heart and listen to it beat, knowing that the other’s mind is racing through two different directions.

“You would have to try harder than that,” whispers Gon.

“I _hate_ you.” Killua’s voice cracks.

His forehead presses against Gon’s, slumping. The courier’s jaw sets in a firm line, even as his insides quiver at the contact. He can feel the thrumming of conflict riding beneath Killua’s skin in waves, coursing through his blood and harshly gripping the both of them in a force of nature harsher than any spell.

Then, the mage grasps Killua’s sleeves, and lowers his head to Gon’s chest. The courier blinks, remaining still as the mage crumbles before him. His sobs blare through the night, weaving through the trees behind the courier’s back. They soar across the ravines tumbling below them in babbling brooks.

Gon has heard this sound only in his nightmares, wondering what could have caused such grief and sadness to envelop the other person breaking in half like a withered branch. The courier slowly wraps his arms around Killua’s back, fearlessly pressing the mage flush against him. He wills himself to be quiet, to listen to the broken cries shattering the night. Killua is grasping onto him as if he’s the one anchor he has in the world, and the selfish, undeniably greedy part of Gon relishes in this sensation. He holds onto Killua, refraining every urge he has to bury his face into Killua’s hair.

_I’m here for you._

Minutes pass. Each second is longer than the last, clinging to every breath Gon draws in and releases, to every whimper and sob that escapes Killua. The mage doesn’t protest when Gon lies back against the tree, allowing the mage to settle against him, half-conscious and delirious. The emotions shaking him to the core are powerful enough for the courier to sense.

Gon shifts once Killua finally pulls himself away, his eyes rimmed and bloodshot. Gon’s hands fist into the grass and soil around him, controlling the desperate surges of anger and frustration bolting through his veins. He needs to calm himself before his Arcane blood spikes. Before he attempts to find the person who wronged Killua in this way, who made him think this way.

Killua stares silently towards Gon. He separates himself from the courier, but Gon reaches out and grasps his arm before he can leave him.

“Killua.” Gon studies Killua’s blank, tired eyes, his too-pale cheeks and bruised lips. He’d been biting and sucking on them, Gon guessed, to keep himself present in the world. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Killua’s brow furrows, but he says nothing.

The courier’s hand then travels up, slowly tracing a stray lock of Killua’s hair. Mesmerized, the courier watches as the mage slowly turns and fixes an unreadable stare onto him, something misted and mysterious flashing through his eyes. They shimmer in swirls of sapphire and steel, like pools of churning storms.

Killua’s left hand reaches over and snatches Gon’s wandering hand.

The courier stiffens. “Killua?”

Killua says nothing. Instead, he lowers Gon’s hand, and pulls himself closer.

Gon blinks, his heart rushing to a complete stop. Killua has moved closer now, his mouth drawn into a thin line and his eyes bursting with unspoken thought. The courier stills, entranced. He’s not prepared for how close the mage becomes, how his lips ghost over his.

A shiver spreads down his spine and chills his every thought, every sense, to ice.

Even so, the mage shakes with pain. Trembles and restrains himself by balancing the weight of the universe on his graceful shoulders.

Killua’s eyes look into Gon’s.

Haunted. Pained. Blue as dragon scales. Gray as winter’s grasp. Breathtaking.

Then, Killua’s voice slithers into the night, traceable and recognizable to Gon as the most forbidden song he’s ever heard. He records it, absorbs it, relishes the sound and _taste_ of it, as these euphoric words travel and snake over Gon’s throat and whisper beautifully into his ear.

It all renders the courier completely helpless.

“ _If you don’t want this, stop me_.”

Gon’s thoughts vanish the moment Killua’s lips find his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this chapter. :) Updating early just because. Had a lot of late nights struggling to sleep so writing kind of helps in that regard. 
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments below if you want. :) Thanks for reading!


	10. The Palest Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it continues...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 1,000,000,000 times more readable because of my amazing beta, Shawnathin93. You are AWESOME, my friend! Thank you so much for beta-reading this! :D 
> 
> Also, thanks so much, every one of you, for leaving kudos, comments, bookmarks, etc. This story is one of my favorites to write for, and I appreciate all of you for taking the time to read and even leave such kind, wonderful words behind. Thank you so much for all of this. I'm humbled each time. It means a lot. :D 
> 
> Here's the next chapter. Enjoy. :)

Gon’s lips are rough as stone, and _warm_.

Despite this, Killua doesn’t allow himself to think.

He pours every piece of him—each little thought, fleeting memory, miniscule fragment of his being into the courier without restraint. It’s as if his barriers have momentarily crumbled in the wake of a person he’s never believed he could trust through this journey across the country, though with each second that passes with each rapid beat of Gon’s heart, warm and pulsing under his hand—Killua wonders, for a moment, if he’s dreaming.

The courier— _Gon, Gon Freecss_ —moans and responds with electric fervency. He sinks his teeth into Killua’s lip, roughly returning the gesture as he pushes forward and trails his hands along Killua’s sides. The mage hesitates, swallowing in uncertainty at the calloused thumbs brushing the loose cotton of his shirt, pressing experimentally into his ribs as if counting every bone.

He pulls away, his tongue swiping over his lip as he stares into warm honey irises, sharp with predatory intent and glistening with mirth. Gon’s smile is lazy and unfocused, his pupils widening and blacking out his eyes—Killua reads the sensations dancing through the other’s stare as it burrows into him, challenging him with every breath he takes. The courier reaches up and runs one hand through Killua’s locks.

_What am I doing?_

It’s as if he’s been struck by lightning while standing on top of the tallest mountain, completely unguarded.

Exposed. Unprepared.

He doesn’t understand the weight of his decision, the impending consequences that would surely follow him taking the initiative and falling for the charming—yet infuriating—demeanor that the courier had unveiled under the moon and stars.

In this moment of vulnerability and weakness, he allows the dam in his mind to break.

Killua cannot grasp the sudden insatiable need to quell whatever is distracting him in the deepest, blackest corridors of his mind. He refuses to acknowledge the blaring warning signs that have plagued him since the first day he was thrust into the courier’s care and shackled against his will, his magic forcefully taken from him without his consent.

A piece of him is missing, and he knows this—yet, being in the courier’s strong, unwavering arms, inhaling the scents of smoked cedar and ash as they rise from the cloaking sleeves and sun-browned skin, weaves another command through his conscience that he hadn’t considered even being a possibility until this moment.

_Does he really want… this?_

Something flutters and dances on waves of heat in the mage’s chest, stirring and breathing life to what he sees in his mind’s eye.

His mind is taunting him. Dangling the image of Gon Freecss, flustered as if taken directly from the sun and challenged with the presence of an idea—a person—that he may or may not be able to conquer. Killua welcomes this image with vigor, even when he considers the reasoning behind Gon wishing to touch him like this, or even be willing to return his daring gesture.

_Stop thinking—_

The mage stiffens as one of Gon’s hands slips under his shirt. His mind blanks.

Instantly, Killua’s confusion turns into loathing for how warm the courier’s skin feels, how those fingers dance up his chest, sparingly, tentatively, and yet with clear intent and focus.

He’s divided between the prickling unsureness inside and the sudden desire to feel more, more, _more_.

In a brief moment of clarity, Killua notices the male’s other hand wandering in a different direction, calloused fingers diving into the slender bones in Killua’s back.

It’s not what Killua expects—he hadn’t spared a moment’s thought to how the courier would react when he’d leaned forward and allowed this to happen. He expected cockiness and greediness, something less instinctive and more predetermined.

Gon’s hands are wandering, feather-light over his clothes and curiously prodding in others, tracing the curves of his spine and hollows between his ribs.

Killua shudders and resists turning away to chastise him for his actions—

“ _Killua_.”

The mage’s heart _leaps_.

Gon says his name so quickly, so sparingly, it’s almost as if it disappears in the wind like distant song. Killua ignores the dreaded signals seeping into his bones, the uncomfortable tremors surging through his blood and pumping energy into his heart that definitely wasn’t there before.

Killua replays the reaching and cupping Gon’s strong jaw in his hands; he presses their mouths together. He loses the tentative urge instantly, pressing his body flush against the courier’s in the awkward angle at the base of an ancient tree.

Yet, Gon follows his silent command, as if tasting the silent pleas for attention, for gratification, that the mage is embarrassed to even admit.

Sparks coil and curl through his toes and spread throughout his limbs in a jumbled pattern, and soon, their movements become erratic.

He sinks his teeth into Gon’s lip, earning a surprised, yet pleased, growl from the courier.

“ _Killua_ …”

He drawls out his name in a moan, dipped in some slick emotion that the mage can only identify as raw desire, and in the next few seconds the mage finds himself on his back.

The courier has him pinned to the grass, and Killua, for this instant, blinks stupidly and stares straight up into the blackened irises of his traveling companion. The courier’s dark hair is swathed in starlight, his lazy smile gone in favor of an indecisive, curious knitting of his brow and whimsical tilt to the corner of his mouth.

Killua’s heart is racing against his chest at such a pace that he doesn’t know how he’s still conscious. Blood rushes to his cheeks, forming a sharp trail through his overheated skin and snaking up his neck, and all the while, Gon watches him steadily, slowly raking his gaze from his waistline all the way up to his rapidly blinking eyes.

Killua’s hazy mind comes together as frustration builds on his tongue. A growl resonates in his throat, and he snorts as the courier fails to even acknowledge him.

“What are you staring at?”

The courier blinks, locking eyes with Killua once more. A shiver races up his spine and sparks up every nerve and tangled thought in his system—he’s unable to look away as the courier leans just close enough for his breath to ghost over his neck. The other male cautiously lowers his jaw, pressing his lips to Killua’s slightly exposed collarbone.

He doesn’t understand why this war criminal—war _hero_ —would ever bother being this slow.

This calculated… This…

_Gentle._

“How are you like this?” Gon whispers.

Killua can hardly process what the other is saying. Gon’s lips are tracing his collarbone, his left hand running along Killua’s chest, the fabric loose and easily scrunching beneath his careful touch.

The mage has no idea what to think of the way Gon is looking at him. When he pulls away from breathing over his neck and tracing his skin with his lips, Killua sees nothing but untampered curiosity and… something like fascination, flicker like flames in the taller, stronger male’s eyes. Even in the darkness his gaze swims with simple and direct thoughts, easily visible even now given their current situation.

“What—,” Killua’s breath hitches as the courier suddenly bends down and sinks his teeth into his shoulder. It’s experimental, clearly, with the brief moment of hesitation and clashing courage that he can practically _feel_ exuding from the courier’s body. “Is _that_ supposed to mean, Courier?” he growls out, biting his tongue to prevent another gasp from leaving him as Gon begins to mouth his neck.

Killua’s fists curl into the grass, nails clumping up soil. He feels Gon’s mouth twitch against his neck.

He’s tempted to punch the bastard.

“I mean,” the courier whispers, smirking rather smugly as he lifts his head high enough for Killua to see him wink. Killua’s jaw slacks, even as the deep, bass chuckles reverberate through the other’s chest like a powerful bell. “How are you—how are you real? You seem like something out of a storybook.”

Killua’s brow furrows. The tension in his shoulders lessens slightly, though the confusion is still evident. Why would it matter what he looks like? It certainly doesn’t explain the reason behind the warmth that is slowly overtaking the courier’s expression, morphing his curiosity into genuine, bashful wonder.

For reasons the mage can’t explain, the vision adds another jump to his heart.

He gulps.

“I don’t know what that means, Courier,” Killua mutters weakly. He doesn’t recognize his own voice—when did it become so breathy? So weak?

Gon’s eyes flash, determined and almost frightening with how courageous they appear. They gleam in the darkness like twin orbs of sunlight.

“I’m saying you’re _beautiful_ , Killua. I’ve never met anyone like you before.”

He says these strange, alien words as if he’s talking about the weather or the raised price in vegetables in the local market. Yet, the simplicity and total honesty behind his words make Killua turn his head away, hoping that this is just temporary.

He doesn’t know what he wants from this, or why he’s so drawn to the heat in the other’s body and the smoldering glare in his eyes or the way he whisper-breathes along his neck like some living shadow—

_He’s foolish._

There is nothing beautiful about Killua.

Though at this point, the mage knows this courier will never listen. He will never see reason, and although Killua can barely tolerate the other’s reckless ignorance, he knows that in this moment, he just wants to _feel_.

He’s drawn to the promise of the other’s touch, to the idea of being encompassed in some variation of warmth that will draw him away from this world entirely. The guilt that claws at his conscience, the bloodied bodies that flash through his mind that entail the faces of many, many lives he’d stolen… they cycle on repeat, grabbing hold of his emotions in the present and twisting them into a vicious, wiry mess.

“Killua?”

Killua growls.

_Why does he keep stopping?_

“ _What_ , Courier?” he chokes out.

He grimaces, instantly annoyed at the familiar wetness turning dry on his cheeks. He hates how easy it is to allow his tears to shed when he knows there are plenty of other solutions to avoid it. He doesn’t want the courier to see him weak like this, but he’s already allowed him to. He’s already opened the gate.

Gon’s calloused thumb raises and brushes a lone tear from underneath his left eye.

Killua blinks, lashes fluttering and caressing the tip of the courier’s fingers. His breath holds in his throat, his eyes unblinkingly staring up at the frowning face of the other male. Gon’s thumb traces his cheekbone, setting on his jaw, where his palm and remaining fingers meet to stroke gently on his moon-white skin.

“You’re crying.”

Killua splutters. He wrenches out of the courier’s grip, raising his legs and kicking the other male off of him. To his lack of surprise, Gon had prepared himself moments before the attack happened, leaping backwards and staring with nothing but concern etched into his handsome features. It angers Killua to an extent he’s not familiar with, watching the rise and fall of the other’s chest and the unbeatable storm of unsureness that swims and dies in those amber-hued depths.

“Let’s just—,” Killua coughs, furiously rubbing down his shirt sleeves and straightening the rest of his clothes. He refuses to look Gon in the eye, to allow the other to see his shame. “Let’s just go. Actually, no, I’ll go, and you can show up on some random hour in the fucking morning. I don’t care anymore.”

But he does.

He does, and part of him is absolutely outraged that he would dare push the other man away. He’d never been looked at with so much warmth and admiration in one instance, yet the individual fragments of his soul and mind refuse to grasp the truth in the other’s desperate stare.

He knows that Gon is angry.

“I can’t let you do that, Killua.”

The mage snaps his head over towards Gon.

Tension ripples in the air, similar to the heat they’d shared with one another only moments before, yet crackling in Killua’s chest in an entirely different way. He recognizes this anger, this spoiled temper that commands his attention and turns him away from the moments where he’d wanted to share the pain inside him.

For a moment, he’d trusted the courier to take it and reflect it.

_Stupid._

“Did I make you uncomfortable?”

Killua blinks. He furrows his brow, staring questioningly at the honest confusion and concern written onto Gon’s face. The courier’s head is tilted to the side, his lips puckered in pensive thought. He looks lost in his own mind, attempting to decipher what he could have possibly done wrong to break them apart.

The mage snorts. “No. You…” his lips are dry. “None of this was… your fault.”

The words taste so strange and unfamiliar, like dipping his tongue into sand. Guilt weighs in his chest. He shouldn’t have instigated anything, not when he wasn’t sure where his emotions were coming from.

“Killua.”

The mage sighs, running one hand through his sweaty locks. “What, Courier?”

“You know that I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time, right?”

Killua stares at Gon as if he’s grown an extra limb. The courier shrugs at this, a sheepish smile dressing his lips, yet he seems far tenser than he was before. This tension is not what Killua is used to with the courier—this odd politeness stretching between them like some plastic cord.

“W-What does that have to do with anything? So what? You—I guess, I wanted to do it too. That’s why I did it. I don’t do things I don’t mean, I guess…” he groans, knowing that he’s echoing the courier’s statement from only a few days before.

Why is he even still talking? He should be marching back through the woods to the village, where he would be greeted with nothing but silence and the comfort of nightfall. The locals would be asleep, and he could ignore Gon for the rest of the evening if he preferred.

“You’re upset, though.” Gon frowns. “Something is wrong, and… Killua, I know this is hard for you to believe, but I _do_ care. I’ve been wanting to kiss you for a lot of reasons, way more than just because I think you’re incredible.”

 _Incredible._ Not just beautiful. Incredible.

Blood rushes to Killua’s cheeks.

He turns away, annoyed at the new layer of sweat slicking his palms. He needs to move away as fast as possible and think before this courier starts talking to him again and lures him back.

_Move. Move. Move. Get away. Get away. Get away._

Was this some strange Arcane ability that the courier possessed? Was his distorted, violent magic bred from emotional triggers able to turn his words into compelling weapons? Was Gon even aware of the odd pull that he had to him? Did he know that his infuriatingly kind smiles and genuine honesty and brilliant golden eyes caused something unfamiliar to bubble up inside Killua’s chest and threaten to combust him from the inside out?

Killua pushes his hands into his pockets and shifts away from Gon, but the courier is faster.

The mage blinks and growls as the other male quickly steps in front of him, bracing himself as if preparing for a brawl. It would be amusing, if not for the growing impatience Killua feels whirling inside him, along with jumbled uncertainties that he can’t pinpoint with Gon looking at him as if he’s the ultimate answer to his issues.

“Why did you kiss me, Killua?” Gon asks.

No banter. No flirting. Direct and simple.

Killua is both surprised and reluctantly impressed.

Part of the mage feels oddly gratified. He has the opposing end of the conversation, the chance to finally tell the courier that he can refuse his answer if he so pleases.

Killua scoffs. “What, no _story for a story_ anymore? Is that rule just tossed out the window?” He chuckles, rolling his eyes. “I don’t know, Courier. Maybe I’m just tired of not feeling anything.”

Gon blinks at this.

“What, did you think a mass-murderer wouldn’t be able to turn off his connection to the world? If you’re unfamiliar with that approach, _noble son of Ging Freecss_ , I think we’re done here—”

“You know,” Gon begins, his voice changing ever so slightly, “you sure talk a lot without bothering to listen to a single thing.”

The mage’s jaw slacks, even as Gon raises one eyebrow with a sharp, steady frown tracing his muscles. The expression looks wrong on someone who radiates danger and sunniness in a confused partnership, yet the darkness that flickers in Gon’s eyes betray any sense of the normalcy that Killua had come to expect.

“Killua, I’ve told you things about me that no one else knows. Ging doesn’t know that I’m an Arcane. Well, maybe he does, but not because of me telling him directly.” Gon hums in thought, ending his internal monologue with a click of his tongue. He grins brightly towards Killua, who wishes he could return the gesture with an opposing frown, but the twitch of his lips refuses to obey his inner demands. “And I believe that you didn’t want to kill all of those people at the Ivory Gates. I know you well enough to understand that.”

Killua stiffens at this. He searches Gon’s features for any sign of deception.

_He never does lie…_

“What makes you so sure?” Killua asks.

Gon steps closer to him. Killua doesn’t move. Not this time.

“Because, you’re easy to understand, Killua.”

Killua snorts. “That’s not even remotely true. You’re just… being weird. Because you’re _weird_.”

Gon breaks out into laughter, his head reeling back as if he’s suffering from whiplash. Killua stares blankly as this happens, though the internal bubbling in his stomach and chest refuses to subside even after the courier regains his composure. Gon shakes with chuckles and giggles, the sounds so juvenile and childish on a figure so unequivocally strong and battle-torn.

“Yeah, I am.” Gon’s smile is warm. Gentle. “But you clearly don’t mind.”

Killua’s brain fogs with a sudden memory of this very man slumped over a chair in a dark, dimly lit inn, his voice drugged with tiredness and skin flushed with heat and alcohol. He remembers feeling those rough, cautious fingers brushing back his hair, those words slipping over the skin of his neck, only minutes before he’d discovered the truth behind the courier’s motives.

“I…” Killua shudders.

The air grows colder.

“What secret do you have, Killua,” says Gon, so quiet and careful that Killua barely catches it as it slips into the breeze, “that makes you cry like that?”

Killua holds his breath. For a second—just one, fleeting second—he recalls the washed-out stone walls of where he’d learned to hone his magic, where he’d come to terms with the undeniable strength that flooded through his veins. His fingers would snap together and release zigzagged bolts towards his targets, and he would watch as barrels of straw and eventually living creatures would react to his relentless magic.

He was never allowed to look away without sharp, crackling pain snapping against his back. His teeth would grit so horribly hard that he would taste his own blood; a vicious, coppery explosion across his tongue that would black out his mind for a handful of seconds.

He would glance over his shoulder, briefly, to the tall, languid man who gazed into his heart, his soul, with shards of charcoal for eyes.

_“You are not watching them die. You will not grow into your potential if you do not look them in the eye and make them know the name of who is ending them.”_

The voice slithers and jolts through Killua’s mind like a thread of quicksilver.

“I can’t tell you.”

Gon’s eyes flash at this. Shadows reflect in his bright eyes, so dark and unassuming that Killua can hardly look away. The hypnotic stare is completely focused on him, dissecting every truth and lie he’s kept hidden behind his irises as if only he knew where the key would be.

Only Gon has been able to render Killua completely silent and bare. The way the courier looks at him makes him feel more than exposed, more than simply naked and defenseless.

Gon turns on his heel, a sharp pivot in the dark that drives a new array of warning signals into Killua’s mind. He leaps back several yards from the courier, watching with bated breath as Gon’s head swivels towards the darkness enveloping the trees behind them. The quietness that settles on the cliff interweaves with the blackened wind; it’s almost as if Killua’s senses are sharpening to notice these smaller details. He wonders, if he steps a bit closer, if he would be able to hear Gon’s racing heart as easily as his own.

“Gon?” he whispers. He doesn’t care that he’s said the courier’s name intentionally, finding it oddly easy to say without the aggression or snide tone that he often favored around the other male.

Gon holds up his hand, his entire body completely still. His cloak billows in a green wave behind him, his spiky hair drifting in the windy currents.

Killua’s eyes widen.

Something has changed.

 _I know this feeling_.

His sudden alertness transforms into panic. As if the barriers he’d so carefully placed up around him are collapsing in the blink of an eye, the mage steps forward, his thoughts outstretched yet his jaw tight with unsureness on what to say.

Gon is already walking forward, and Killua is too far away— _too slow_ —to recognize the danger he’s placed them both in.

“ _Gon_ —”

He gasps. A dreadful weight slams into his spine, knocking him onto his knees. His fingers sink into the soil, knuckles snapping and recoiling on impact. He braces himself as his air knocks out of his lungs, swimming into the shadowed night. He needs to stand back up and warn the courier, but his vision is blotching out, desecrating the image of tumbling blades of grass beneath his body. He doesn’t need to look up to know that the courier is already panicking and rushing back towards him.

_Say something! Tell him to run!_

But he can’t. He grapples at his neck, frigid ice coiling thickly around the words lodged in his throat. He hasn’t experienced this in years, this paralyzing cloak swallowing up his muscles and voice in a suffocating embrace.

He struggles as his head is forcefully yanked back, long, serpentine fingers creasing around his scalp. Nails as sharp as glass pierce into his temples, digging, rummaging, scouring through his skin as if attempting to yank out his thoughts.

_No, no, no, no, no, no, no—_

“ _Killua_!”

Gon’s voice snaps Killua out of his stupor. He’s unable to even yank up his neck, mustering the slightest bit of strength open his mouth and try to force his voice back into place. It’s not in his control, yet the strings winding through him and commanding each individual action now are enough to send him back into a pit of mutilated self-control he never thought he would experience again.

“Ah, Kil. So this is where you’ve been.”

_No—_

“Get your hands _off of him_!”

Gon’s screams echo off the cliff and rattle the mage’s bones, chilling him and causing a tendril of warmth to slither up his chest. He’s not sure where this rush is coming from, or why it pleases him to hear the protectiveness and anger seep into Gon’s words, but the reality of the situation is enough to keep the mage grounded in reality.

“Hm, an Arcane? How interesting.”

Killua can imagine what this long, pale shadow of his nightmares looks like now, washed out by the moon and stars. He resembles something more frightening and haunting than ghosts in ancient castles, than the banes of wizards and witches in the most forlorn stories. He knows the wearer of this voice more than anyone else could, and the chains binding him from his magic are nowhere near the touch of this _creature’s_ fingers on his flesh.

“I said: get your hands _off_.”

Gon’s anger crackles through the air like fiery whips.

_No, you fucking idiot, get out of here!_

“Well, Kil, you should have killed this weak Arcane when you had the opportunity. I will kill him quickly, and be done with it. He is not worthy to breathe the same air as a Zaoldyk.”

He can’t see the other’s face.

Those twin black voids for eyes…

They have never promised anything but death.

Killua’s heart drops.

_No, don’t touch him! Don’t you dare fucking touch him!_

His own hands, wrenched around his throat and struggling to move even the slightest inch, begin to pulse with newfound fervor. He recognizes this sensation, relishes in the taste of a familiar, missed presence in his gut that he hasn’t come to know since his brief moment of recollection in the city of Masadora.

His eyes widen.

There’s a chance. A small one, but it’s there, calling to him like a phantom hand through another dimension, caressing his senses and allowing him a new opportunity in the wake of failure.

_You can’t have him, Illumi._

He closes his eyes, breathes, and opens them to lock eyes with Gon.

It takes only a second for the courier to read his expression.

And it’s all Killua needs as lightning strikes the cliff.


	11. Chase and Follow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected ambush...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Shawnathin93, for beta-reading this chapter and giving great suggestions and honest feedback as usual! You are the bomb diggity.
> 
> Thank you, sincerely, to every reader of this story! Doesn't matter if you've left kudos, placed a bookmark, commented, whatever -- just the fact that you've all taken the time to click on this fic at ALL means the absolute WORLD. So, thank you. 
> 
> And now, here's the next chapter. And this one, my friends, is easily my favorite that I've written so far. 
> 
> Thrilled with how it's turned out. Hopefully you'll like it as well. ;)
> 
> Enjoy!

Gon allows his fingers to brush over the crevices on the stone ledge, his eyes narrowing on the fragments of glass that once melded together to form a full window.

His hand glides over the weathered surface. Black spots have been welded into the mixed granite and older, bearing rock. He pulls his hand away, just slightly, to absorb the sight of the scattered red streaks marring the glass and framing the shattered window—droplets of a previous life, still and frozen in time.

At four stories high, the tower seems collapsible despite the wooden beams supporting the girth of limestone and melted wax. This tower—this fortress—is temporary, with its torn banners resembling little more than the defenses Gon and other survivors from the Red Plains would allow to be stationed near the front gates.

Beyond the opened face of the tower, trees stand as bristling, windswept pillars for miles. The outcropping of mountains in the distance promises roads untraveled and secrets left hidden in tufts of dark, trodden soil.

Gon wonders just how many curious wanderers have bypassed this tower in favor of the dangerous woodlands and the mountain spires. Each foundation breathes life into the winds that carve through his spiked hair, that deliver icy chills through his skin.

He wants to breathe the air of the mountains and listen to birdsong and chase after the secret noises in ditches, all while embracing the memories of spears and broken glass and blood.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

If he were still young, still hidden from the bloody, savage world in his aunt’s cottage in the countryside, Gon would have found this voice to be commanding. Daunting. A stream of words labeled in mystery that echoed the tales of far desert landscapes and dying grottos filled with dragon bones and treasures made of gold and fairy’s wishes.

But he is not twelve anymore.

Gon does not even turn to acknowledge the silhouette braced against the stone wall. The other man is gaunt and strong beneath layers of smoky silks and a peculiar gray turban wrapped around his head. Dark mahogany eyes scan the shadowed premises, lips formed in a tight line and brows furrowed in a constant state of unsureness and arrogance that only Gon can relate to and understand while suppressing his own need to be different.

He runs his fingers over the stone and fiddles with a piece of glass, this one no larger than his thumb and stained a pinkish red. He wonders who would have been caught on the glass before tumbling out this very window, falling to the grass below them in a smattering of skin and bones.

A quiet sigh from the man beside him, barely a whisper, draws Gon’s attention. But not his eyes.

“Giving your old man the cold shoulder? The least you could do would be to ask to have some ale, first. Can’t really get through a conversation with you unless drunk.” He clears his throat, the rustling of fabric so minute in its volume that Gon barely catches it, but he does, and he knows that the older man is pulling out a glass vial from his pocket.

“How many died, Ging?” Gon asks.

A swallow echoes in the tower floor.

“Heh. Of course that’s the first thing you ask…” Ging comes over to the window’s open space, leaning forward just a few inches shy of the glass shards. Gon keeps his distance on the other side of the ledge, though his father’s blank stare is now directed towards the sun rising high, golden and bursting in a cacophony of pinks and swirling purples in the distance.

“We counted at least forty-five. Not a very strong fleet. All human though. No Ants, as far as I can recall. Kurapika made sure to keep tally of them all.”

Gon nods. He turns over the glass shard in his hands, thumb brushing over the surface as if it’s as soft and smooth as spring water.

“I have a mission for you,” says Ging.

“Hm.” Gon watches the sun, tracing the flickering trails of light and warmth in the far distance as if observing a tapestry for the first time.

He wants to drink in this early morning and bask in dawn’s light—would the sun wash away the sunken shadows beneath his eyes? The visions of bones breaking and hearts stopping beneath his touch?

“Think you’ll like this one. It’ll be a challenge. Probably the hardest thing you’ll ever do.”

Gon says nothing.

“As much as I love having this conversation with a brick wall, you could acknowledge me at some point. Give a nod or two. Offer to buy me some more ale. Any of that.”

Ging fumbles with the glass container in his bloodied hands, free of any callouses or scars.

Gon likes to imagine that he bears twice the number of blemishes permanently ingrained into his skin as means of making up for Ging’s lack of involvement on the battlefield.

He’d listened to Commander Kurapika Kurta shout orders the previous night with tenacity and spirit, with the soul of a warrior who allowed his eyes to turn scarlet for the sake of protecting others.

Though Gon’s father—the man cloaked in mystery and infamy, who strides into castles with nothing more than the clothes on his back and a wickedly silver tongue—concocts plans as if they’re as easy to create as formulating recipes.

He provides the backbone to a regime that has led to numerous deaths on both sides.

“Gon. Keep your ears open for this part.”

Gon’s lips are tight, his fists clenching on the stones. He wills his temper to remain intact, focusing on the whisper in the leaves bristling around the tower and the calming rays of the sun.

Today will erase the shadows of yesterday. He hopes, and wishes, to the core of his being.

“You’ll be receiving a letter. A courier’s letter. From the King. He will be requesting you to transport a deadly criminal of some kind from some prison fortress in the Tanisbourne Mountains. You’ll be able to get your hands on this letter in about a month’s time.”

Gon finally turns to face his father, his gaze steely. Detached.

“Transporting a criminal?” he echoes.

Ging smirks to himself. “Heh. Thought that would pique your interest. We need some greater help if we’re going to attack the King’s place from the inside. And one person in particular has a chance for this. You’ll be meeting him rather soon, since it would be almost impossible for me to be wrong about this.”

Gon considers this. “Who?”

Ging barks out a laugh. “Strange. You want to spoil that part for you?” He turns and raises an eyebrow towards Gon, who mirrors his posture and stance so eerily that the older of the two breaks eye contact before he can manage it any longer. “Anyway, Kurapika will make those arrangements for traveling and all that nonsense. I don’t care how you do it. Just make sure you bring them here in one piece. They’ll be valuable.”

Gon examines the glass in his hands. He slowly places the shard back in its rooted place on the shattered windowsill, humming under his breath.

“And, kid,” says Ging, snorting slightly, “don’t tell this prisoner who you are or where you’re going. Come up with a plan to segue them.”

And with that, his father is gone.

Gon trains his eyes back to the sun in the distance, and bites his lip to prevent a frown.

The streaks of rust and lavender that engulfed the mountaintops and endless crown of the woodlands have faded into a blank sheet of gold. A halo spreading into a periwinkle sky.

He’ll be leaving this tower soon.

He tastes it in the air, under his skin, in the visions of angry men and women fighting to the death for the name of a king who despises them all the same.

_Tomorrow._

He sees it in the blood of the enemy staining his knuckles, hours after he’s scrubbed them clean.

* * *

 

**… Three Months Later …**

* * *

_Danger._

He sees it in the void of Killua’s screams as they rip and tear through the night, seconds after he’s turned his back.

His blood simmers beneath his skin, racing with tendrils of blinding white fire that courses through his knuckles, pounds in his temples, buries into the roots of his teeth as he grinds them and hopes to every god he can think of that he hasn’t foolishly placed them both in harm’s way.

Yet, he can hardly decipher the image of the tall, pale shadow of a man pinning the mage to the earth with dexterous, bony fingers and eyes of smoked charcoal. He appears as a winged shadow from the sleek night air, muscling through the darkened winds with tresses of long raven hair and skin paler than wintry mountaintops.

Though what steals Gon’s breath upon first laying eyes on the man is not his outward appearance, or even the way he immediately lunges upon Killua, but the complete lack of anything resembling life in his shadowed eyes.

They gaze forward into nothing, below a brow blank of expression. Those glassy orbs swirl in depths of churning obsidian and electric terror, are able to seize Gon’s every word and turn them into abandoned thoughts on his own tongue.

He can barely register Killua’s voice as it bellows in the darkness, shaking the core of the grassy slopes where he’d gathered the courage to finally lose himself to a kiss he’d been craving to have with the mage for what’s seemed like eons.

Killua is braced on all fours, his face shoved close to the earth, fingers diving into the soil and clipping up tufts of dirt and grass. Gon steps forward, unable to detach from the spiraling heat forcing itself through his heart, his mind, his very soul as it pulses and grow and _grows_ into an indescribable mass that he risks to unleash with no control.

“ _Killua_!”

The mage’s name tears through his vocal cords and rips a vicious gash in the night. He’s moving before he can realize it, his fists clenched so tightly that blood wells through his fingers and travels down his bulging arms. His veins are hot and glowing brightly with ripples of white and scorching amber and rustic orange. The pain seeps into his temples and throbs through his skin, like snakes releasing venom into his bloodstream.

His mind blocks out the pale man’s whispers, each word traveling like crystals on tightropes. It’s a shrill noise, so contrasting to the human eloquence of Killua’s. Yet, the way the assailant speaks to Killua seems too familiar for this to be a random attack.

The physical details are striking in Gon’s mind, reminiscent of days long ago when he’d been able to assess his target’s movements with one flicker of his eyes over their clothes, their weapons, the slightest twitch in their arrogant faces.

And this man is graceful down to his ominous, deep blue robes sweeping about him in a lifted wave, his sleeves rolled to the cuffs and exposing veins glowing sleek silver and dark purple. The patterns dance and twine over his skin like serpents, energy bouncing off his flesh and forming into circular symbols in the air. The magic moves into shapes and symbols Gon has never seen before.

A growl rumbles in Gon’s throat. His mind zeroes in on Killua, who is screaming with no noise, his eyes bolted wide and wet with unshed tears, swelling around the rim. The pale man’s fingers are grasped over his head, piercing through his locks and sliding over his temples.

“I said: get your hands _off_.”

His voice is lost to shadows and fire.

Gon rushes forward, bolstered with one goal in mind: get Killua far, far away from this man—

Then, the mage lifts his head, and those striking, breathtaking blue eyes find Gon’s. In that split second—a fragment lost in time—the courier’s heart skips. His breathing halts.

It’s enough for him to quickly brace his shoes into the dirt and slide to a stop. The pale man lifts his head towards the sky, right as a vicious, careening bolt of lightning bursts out of the clouds like a tear in a blanket, landing a few yards away from Gon.

His body is flung to the side from the impact, the tower of sparks and godly strength sending his knees buckling and his powers temporarily abated. He regains some sense of normalcy, his voice screeching through the night and hoping that the mage hears him calling his name.

He braces himself and forces his muscles to react ahead of time, watching as the pale man leaps off of Killua’s body, just barely avoiding the lightning’s strike, his robes wrapping around him in one swift motion and gathering him into a small, bird-like shape.

“Killua!” Gon calls, desperate. He can feel his energy slipping away, his veins calming down and allowing a calming wave to crash over his senses. It allows him clarity, glimpsing through the smoke and rousing fire growing on the cliff side.

The robed man hovers in the form of a raven, racing in circles around the cliff yet not daring to approach. Gon glares at their assailant before rushing to Killua’s side.

“Killua, Killua, can you hear me?” He wants to reach out to him, but something snaps into the air and strikes him.

He jumps back on reflex, blinking at the light singing around his palms. He turns towards Killua, his teeth gritting. He wants to stomp his feet into the earth and somehow command this strange spell from lifting off the mage’s body, but he knows that nothing he says will change anything.

He whirls around and glares at the raven. “What did you do to him?! Let him go! Set Killua free!”

_I’ll tear your arms off myself and remove the spell with your own hands if that’s what it takes!_

The raven says nothing, yet Gon is not going to wait for an answer. He lowers himself to the ground, keeping a safe distance yet ignoring the tightness in his chest. He needs to embrace Killua and tell him that everything will be fine, though this—none of this was planned.

Killua is trembling, shaking and panting, yet he doesn’t move from his position. He is grabbing onto the blades of grass beneath him as if they’re his very lifeline, yet the way he shifts and twitches against an invisible presence makes Gon’s heart plummet to his toes.

“No—no, no, no, Killua, you have to fight it! I can’t…” Gon shakes his head.

He’s powerless.

“Kil.”

That voice.

Gon stands up and braces a defensive stance in front of Killua, his fists clenched and oozing with a new surge of his blood and soul roaring to life in one combined motion.

“Don’t talk to him! Don’t you dare talk to him!”

The raven swiftly morphs in the night air, robes spilling out from the tiny wings as feathers burst in angry torrents around him. The languid, moonlit shadow of a man appears draped too gracefully against the canvas of the night sky. He tilts his head, his asphalt eyes switching between Gon and Killua as if considering his next move in a game of chess.

“Kil. Destroy this Arcane. He is attempting to denounce your Zaoldyk authority. Perhaps, you would be willing to oblige by this command?”

_Don’t talk to him. Don’t say his name. Don’t you dare._

Gon growls. “He’s not going to listen to you! Killua is _nothing_ like you!”

The warlock blinks at this, though it barely flickers as any form of movement in the dark. Gon stiffens, turning slowly to mage on the grass, who shifts and contorts his muscles and grip on the ground as if the lightning had struck him, instead.

Killua groans through grinding teeth, spasms ripping through his body in visible currents. Gon resists stepping closer to him, turning back to the warlock who drifts in the air. His lips are pursed and hands moving to his hips, a flash of total disinterest careening through those menacing black eyes.

“Kil, resisting is futile. The longer you wait to kill the Arcane, the longer we will remain out here. It is time I take you back where you belong.”

“ _No_!” Gon snaps at the air, his instincts shifting back and forth like cards flying across a tabletop. “You’re not taking him away! Stay away from Killua!”

“ _Gon_ …”

The sound of Killua’s voice slipping into the air drags Gon out of his ferocious stupor. As if a light switches off in his brain, he whirls around, and clamps his jaw shut as the mage staggers to his feet. Killua grabs at his face, pulling, tugging at his hair, gritting his teeth and muttering under his breath.

“Hm. I wouldn’t advise resistance, Kil.”

Gon ignores the warlock. He’s distant enough to not be a threat, and whatever his intentions are, most of them are apparently directed at the idea of Killua attacking Gon.

He wonders what type of spell the other inflicted on his companion, or when it could have occurred. Could it have been when he turned around and saw the pale man’s long, bony fingers grappling onto Killua’s head like an anchor? Or when Gon dared to shift away from Killua’s gaze in those fleeting seconds where he felt the warlock’s presence stirring in the black winds?

The image alone—above all else—makes Gon’s stomach churn.

“ _G-Gon,_ get _out_ of h-here. F-Fuck, I can’t—Illumi will—”

Killua releases an earsplitting scream, tugging at his hair.

Gon wants to hold him. Wants to pull him into an embrace that silences the terrors in his mind. He can only watch, petrified, furious, as the emotions flicker and vanish in Killua’s eyes in collateral rhythm. His pupils dance and disappear from his irises, replacing the deep blues and grays with a blank canvas. His movements cease entirely, and those clouded orbs turn towards Gon in sharp, mechanical movements.

It feels as if all of the air has been sucked from Gon’s lungs.

“… Killua?”

The mage doesn’t answer. A spiral of blue energy burns through the grass and soil, surrounding him in a glyph. His clothes become ruffled in a slow, sensuous ripple, the winds carrying the fabric and distilling into concentrated layers around him.

Sparks pop in the air, like winks from an impending storm. A cloak of light and rippling, tangible electric currents spread and swarm the silver-haired mage’s body in one swoop, illuminating the veins under his wrists and arms.

“Hm. Good. It would be foolish to abandon what you know now, Kil.”

Gon ignores the warlock. His attention is solely glued to Killua, the mage stiff as a board and regarding him with an utter void of rational thinking in those eyes that he’d so quickly fallen for.

He looks, deep and far, into the slightest scrunching of the mage’s brow and the faintest gnashing of his teeth. He sees the conflict burrowing into his skin, causing his hands to tremble even as a spell lingers in his concealed palms.

_He’s fighting it._

Inhale. Exhale.

He needs to focus.

“Enough stalling, Kil. Finish the Arcane.”

The command slips into the air like a whip, and suddenly, Killua’s head jerks forward, and his hand raises. A large, crackling sphere forms in his palm, collected from the protective glyph encaging him in a vicious circle. Those lips are pursed together in a tight line, gaze still as blank as a frozen lake in winter.

Gon can barely focus on one train of thought as a dozen impulses spur throughout his body. The way this warlock is speaking to Killua—there’s familiarity there. He mentioned the Zaoldyk surname… could they somehow be related? Killua mentioned a name several times on their journey, briefly and sporadically, as if he’d never meant to actually bring it out into the open. Gon would laugh and brush it off but hold onto those key words and phrases that the mage believed he would easily forget.

Raw, scorching, boiling _heat_ coils in his stomach and rapidly rises to his skull. It’s painful, exhilarating, numbing. Blinding white blistering lines burst on his skin, trailing over gooseflesh and illuminating orange and crimson in separate rivers. He screams, allowing his every emotion to pour into his fists. He relishes the crackling embers simmering his blood, his knuckles burning bright and proud and deadly.

He reels back his fist—just as the mage’s sphere leaps from his palm—and strikes the ground.

He dodges the sphere, sweating, scrambling, as the giant hole he’d opened in the earth immediately expands into cracks. The entire slope quakes, as if shaken in the hands of a giant. Tree roots snap like twine, grass and dirt flying off from the release of burning energy.

Gon tackles Killua, wrapping his arms around the mage’s middle. The ground gives away beneath their feet, the wind rushing by in deafening currents. On contact, electric sparks sink into the courier’s skin and ripple alongside the gold and burning red energy lines under his cloak, his clothes, his flesh.

The warlock says nothing, his body once again morphing into that of a large raven, strong fabric melding into wings and concealing the wiry human form. Black eyes harden into obsidian shards, an untold command unleashing wave after wave of shadowed tendrils. They snake and slash through the crumbling cliff side as the entire slope falls, tumbling towards the woodlands.

Gon can see nothing but the crown of Killua’s hair, soft and brushed so easily by the winds. The protective glyph shatters around his unmoving body. The stirring lightning that rips through the night melds into the shadowed tendrils bursting from the warlock’s outstretched, knobby fingers.

The courier can register nothing past the fleeting weight in his stomach and the deafening crashing of rocks caving beneath their feet.

He can sense another presence behind them. The warlock, trailing behind with wings folded to the slender back, sweeping layers of magic enveloping the fake feathers in dark waves.

Gon holds his breath. He’s holding Killua’s form so tightly—through the severing pain in his mind and body—with strength that could break bones.

The growling declaration that rumbles in his mind is the only conscious thought before his instincts swallow him whole.

_You’re not taking him._

Gon keeps the mage’s body flush to him as they fall, headfirst, into the forest below.

* * *

 

 

* * *

Gon turns onto his back, pushing and contracting every muscle in his body to contort their position and hold the mage to his chest, as he collides the first of many branches. The energy boiling in his veins spreads into an instinctive, protective layer over his skin, hardening flesh and bones as they both smash and drop onto withered, snapping branches.

Bitter, darkened leaves rush by in a violent halo, tossing shapes and colors into Gon’s vision as he struggles to latch onto the person he’s grasping onto with every fiber of his being.

The wind knocks out of him as they land on something thick and wiry—bracken. Underbrush. Gon chokes out, the Arcane energy pulsing through him receding. He’s cracked several bones, the thin layer of temporary armor barely enough to prevent him from being killed on impact. He bites into his tongue, his shoulders aching with pain.

He slowly, carefully, rolls Killua off his form. The mage is still unresponsive, convulsing and twitching with his mouth open, haunted and begging to make noise. Gon grits his teeth together and forces his upper body to lift.

He looks over the mage. Relief crashes through him, stronger than the energy rippling in his blood.

He’d taken the brunt of the risky decision to collapse the cliff and fall into the woods. Around them, the trees are thick as elephant legs, the bark peeling and roots upturned in enormous, snaking patterns in the earth. He stiffens, rolling his leg and wincing at the startling tear in his skin and muscle. He looks down, his hands flexing into the leaf and mulch beneath their bodies.

“G-Gon…”

Immediately, Gon turns his head to Killua. He watches, quietly, as the mage’s steely, blank eyes slowly begin to recede. His irises burst with newfound life, pupils flickering into appearance once more like paint dappling the ocean’s surface. Gon resists the urge to instantly pull the other into a hug, using his self-control to slowly push away the instinctive urges that melded into an explosive force only seconds before.

Then, the mage draws in a huge, gaping breath, his body stiff. Sweat glistens on his forehead, his teeth gritting.

“Killua? Killua, are you okay?”

Gon blinks, swirling his tongue around his mouth—he recognizes the taste of blood more than anything else. He touches his lip, sighing. He knew he wouldn’t be able to fall headfirst into the woods from a cliff without bearing a few injuries, despite the fact that his Arcane energy, when manifested completely, could form a brief layer of protective armor for a few crucial seconds.

“Gon, shit, what the hell happened—wait…” Killua grimaces, turning his body towards the courier, pushing his hands to the dirt and lifting his head. His clothes are ripped in several places, mud streaking his jaw and leaves sticking out of his hair.

“A warlock,” says Gon, his eyes narrowing. “He’s still following us. We have to move.” He steadies himself beside the mage, scanning his body with attentive, focused eyes. Killua blinks at him, a sudden awareness coming to life on his confused features.

“Wait—did you— _Courier_!” Killua snaps, and suddenly, he’s grasping the other male’s shoulders and shaking him as if he’s no more than a rag doll. “Are you _insane_? Did you just—no, oh gods… fuck, you’re hurt.” His eyes darken, absorbing the injuries Gon managed to sustain from their fall. “You’re insane. You’re absolutely _insane_ —”

Gon reaches and cups Killua’s face in his hands. The mage stutters, his anger and worry disappearing in favor of confusion and annoyance. His skin heats with a dark red flush, and before he can protest, Gon kisses him.

The feeling of the mage’s lips under his, while frozen still in shock, allows some form of peace to travel in Gon’s mind. He smiles into the contact and pulls back, nodding.

“We have to move, okay? I’m just glad you’re alright.” Gon moves to stand up, just as the mage quickly grabs the collar of his shirt and presses his forehead to the courier’s.

The movement surprises Gon, yet he stills, searching through the deep, silvery blues of the other’s eyes. Killua is breathing, slowly, shakily, his hand grasping onto Gon’s cloak collar with barely mustered strength.

Gon frowns. “Killua?”

“Don’t _ever_ fucking do that again, alright? Shit.” Killua swallows. “You’re injured, now, you stupid idiot. I feel like I’m the only one with common sense in this partnership.”

_Partnership._

Gon cannot stop the massive smile that spreads across his face.

Killua avoids looking at him, yet the courier grasps the other’s wrists and helps him to his feet, reluctantly breaking the contact between their foreheads. The mage is glaring, hotly, but the energy simmering beneath this particular stare causes Gon’s heart to skip and his stomach to rumble with butterflies.

“Well, since you decided to blow up the _entire cliff_ like the impulsive moron you are,” says Killua with a sharp roll of his eyes, “what’s the next step in your plan?”

Gon blinks, slowly reaching behind him to rub the back of his neck. He grins sheepishly despite the seriousness of their situation. They’re both lucky that the dark warlock tracking Killua hasn’t appeared yet, and even with this in mind, he cannot stop the bashfulness from causing his skin to heat up with an embarrassed blush.

Killua’s frown drops. “You don’t have a plan.”

“Um, well, to be fair, it all just escalated pretty quickly—”

“ _Gon_.”

Killua drags both hands down his face, clearly tempted to tug at his own locks of hair and kick around a pebble or two to vent his frustrations. He glares up into the sky, past the towering trees and withered branches with a click of his tongue.

“I can sense my brother coming for us. Let’s just move forward and away from—ugh, wherever he is.” His brow furrows, gaze lingering on certain spots in the vicinity. Gon watches this with bated breath, curiously attached to the sight with the curiosity of a newborn fawn. “You’re lucky I’ll be able to sense his presence. We won’t have much time. Come on.”

With that, the mage turns on his heel, gesturing for Gon to follow him. The courier sighs, yet quickly comes to the other’s side.

The forest is eerily quiet.

Their footsteps echo in the layers of mulch and fresh, dry leaves crunching beneath their shoes. Gon holds back his slight limping, knowing that the mage is stiff and clenching his jaw after noting the way his movements have changed. However, they both remain silent, with Gon consistently glancing around them for any sign of change in the winding paths in the woods.

“He’s your brother?” Gon asks.

Killua’s hands are in his pockets, his frown contemplative in how straight and composed it is. His eyes, however, are heavy and dry.

“Yes. I’ve talked about him before. Earlier in our… travels.” He searches for the correct words, sighing. “He’s taking his time, most likely. Watching us. It’s part of his belief in the fact that mages should rely on controlling the situation at all times, rather than letting humans or non-magical beings in general have a say in the matter.”

Gon hums at this, nodding. “You were still conscious, though. I could see it.”

Killua stops moving.

The courier frowns and mirrors his posture, watching as the muscles in Killua’s back stiffen. A subtle gust of wind drifts over their bodies, caressing the silent trees around them. The sound is so soft, like the first breath of autumn, yet it hammers in Gon’s eardrums like the loudest gong he’s ever heard in his life.

“Don’t move,” Killua whispers. His pupils are dilated; his entire form still as iron.

Gon grunts in response, his gaze narrowing. He surveys their surroundings, flicking over the rustling tree branches, the slightest shift in the darkened browns and greens melding into one tapestry. He steadies his breathing, willing his mind to solely focus on one object at a time.

The trees are lower in this part of the forest. Gon knows they’re not close to any village or city for miles and miles, a blessing and a curse. They wouldn’t want the illusive warlock to trace their whereabouts to a place teeming with innocent lives. Yet, from where they stand, Gon can trace the outcropping of higher slopes spiraling towards the sky in towers of stone and moss.

He recognizes the circles of twigs, branches, tree sap and wax holding the natural platforms together in beds fit for giant creatures. They’re scattered through the stone-and-wood spires in frayed patterns, massive and unreachable by normal means. They are strong and sturdy enough to support only the largest of animals.

The courier blinks as another, familiar stream of silver, black and white tears through the sky. Even as the sun eclipses the corner of his vision, rising to call forth a new dawn, Gon recognizes this pattern of blinding, beautiful feathers and talons and raw wonder that forms the foundation of numerous legends and old tales.

Gon’s eyes widen. His heart races.

It’s another risk. A dangerous one.

But it may be the only choice they have.

“He’s close,” says Killua, the hairs along the back of his neck bristling like a feline pelt.

Gon steps forward, his voice low and concentrated. “Killua. I have a plan.”

“Oh, brilliant. Glad you finally thought of something.” The mage snorts. “Seriously, Gon, you can’t keep doing this. We need to focus. I can tell that he’s close—”

“No, no, I mean—this one will _work_.”

Gon smiles far too widely for Killua’s liking. The mage’s brow furrows suspiciously, yet the courier relents, leaning close to the other and dipping his head to affirm the connection between their stares. He wants Killua to read every word on his lips, to feel the excitement crackling in the air more viciously than the silver-haired male’s electric magic.

Killua sighs, long and drawn-out.

“ _Fine_. We only have a minute at most, though. What’s your plan?”

Gon grins, and points his finger towards the scattering of nests. It would take at least fifteen minutes to run as fast as possible to reach one, yet his finger is focused mainly on the streamlined bird that glides through the night as a silver, white and black thread.

The mage’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. He slowly turns his head away from the moonbeam hawk, and latches onto Gon’s far-too-wide smile and shining eyes.

“You can’t be serious.”

Gon nods. “I never say things I don’t mean, Killua.”

Killua pinches the bridge of his nose. “I swear, you hit your head or something.”

“Killua.”

The mage snorts and finds Gon’s eyes again. The courier settles into a warm, gentle smile, reaching over and opening his hand to the other male. Killua stares at this gesture, uncertainty clouding him from head to toe.

He can read the hesitance on the mage as easily as any book.

“Do you trust me?”

Dozens of conflicting thoughts dance in the mage’s eyes.

Gon can envision the stories they’ve told one another along this journey, note every single moment he’d glimpsed the other’s moonlit skin and haunting storm irises. He can hold onto the definitive war of countless decisions marking up his perception while Gon can only settle on one at a time.

This plan is insane. It may completely fail.

Yet, having the mage—having his former prisoner, his companion, his friend, having _Killua Zaoldyk_ at his side—makes Gon believe that he can survive the impossible.

The seconds that tick by feel akin to centuries. Gon does not waver.

Beneath the violent layers of fear and apprehension, Gon sees the other’s thoughts as vividly as any song in the comfort of his cottage, years ago, when Aunt Mito still told him stories of people like Killua that the courier never thought could ever exist.

Killua’s fists clench. He looks directly into Gon’s eyes.

It makes him feel exposed— _naked_ , almost—as if the mage is actually seeing him for the very first time.

His answer is a silent whisper in Gon’s mind. Loud. Vibrant. Clear.

Killua dips his head.

 _This is me, trusting you_.

And takes his hand.


	12. Link in the Chain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A turn of events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, to each and every person who has read, commented, left kudos, bookmarked... everything. Ah. Thank you, honestly. It means the world that people are reading this at all and leaving such thoughtful commentary behind when the work in itself means so incredibly much to me as a writer. It helps motivate and drive to the very end, especially when there are only a few chapters left in this story...
> 
> Ah. So weird that it'll be ending soon. Goodness.
> 
> Special thank you to my good friend and beta, Shawnathin93, who is always very patient with me sending these chapters later than expected. His input helps make this story better.
> 
> Okay. Well. Here's the next chapter! This one was a toughie. :D 
> 
> Thank you all again and I hope you enjoy!

“Don’t look away.”

Killua’s heels dig into the earthy soil beneath him. He squints up towards the skies, watching as black, ashen clouds sail overhead in dark rivers. Wind tosses back his pale hair and scrapes along his twitching knuckles and bitten-down fingernails. The shiver that spreads from the top of his head to his curling toes keeps him submerged in the moment, despite how caved his lungs feel inside his own chest.

His muscles are screaming for him to sit down. One half of his brain commands him to cross his legs atop these spiraling mounds of stone, moss, and soaked dirt, while the other reminds him that he is only allowed to move when the sky finally splits open and he can drink in the sight of a crackling storm. A storm worth the time even for the lingering shadow of his brother to follow him to the cliff.

“Be ready for it.”

_Stop…_

Killua grimaces, barely moving his aching, bare foot to his left as an invisible pressure holds him in place. He bites his tongue, relishing the familiar explosion of copper and iron, drawing his thoughts back to his own pain, to his own human roots as he shifts and squirms through his brother’s phantom grasp.

“Do not move, Kil.”

Killua dares not protest. His shoulders stiffen and he braces himself onto the rocks. Below him, the ocean crashes against rocky spires in violent waves. It’s a sound that flicks through his mind like a vanishing light, snatching what’s left of his exhausted attention in spades.

Then, a thunderous drum echoes through the cove.

It makes Killua tremble beneath the weight of something he cannot see. He cranes his neck further and watches as droplets of rain fall in waves from the tempered clouds. He flexes his hands and blinks away the water slipping between his lashes and pelting his face.

The wind whispers in a muted song, cracking apart the stretches of silence like the cords of a whip. The seconds that pass feel as slow-moving as tar in Killua’s vision. He braces his stance at the edge of the rocks, listening to the tumbling waves below him. Water laps up by the mossy slopes, reaching higher and higher as if attempting to engulf him whole.

His brother’s glare studies him. He feels those dark eyes run over his frame, assessing each tight muscle, each awkward crevice that exposes his lack of focus. His mind has wandered to a point where he can no longer decipher where his overall gaze will land.

He closes his eyes, and waits, palms just barely exposed to allow his aura to shift and turn in the frigid, thickened air.

The sky opens.

He grits his teeth.

The first lightning strike is always the most painful. It finds him easily, careening from the storm clouds in an elegant, blinding arc. Heavy sparks strike his skin, burning and spiking the tension underneath and tightening what little grip he has on his heart and lungs. His heels dig into the soil and he backs up—just slightly—his fingers cracked in accepting the first strike like a man kneeling at a god’s feet.

_Six. Seven. Eight. Nine—_

He counts, willing his patience to simmer into nothingness. The bolts tremble and remain trapped within his body. His skin shakes with gooseflesh and the slightest blue tremors in his veins. He straightens his back, releasing a low, shocked gasp. He bends over on his knees as the sparks subside, grimacing.

A heavy weight builds in his stomach, rising to his chest, and he empties the contents of his failed attempt in harnessing the power of the storm onto the rocks.

He has less than twenty seconds before Illumi will strike him again for stalling.

He winces, turning to glare back up towards the shifting clouds. Black and white streaks tumble in unison, concealing another flurry of lightning.

The second strike is better than the first. He tells himself this each time, to deny the unstoppable pattern that will continue to rip his body apart from the inside and out. He will maintain the essence of a deadly force of nature, allowing it to mingle with his soul and command what little control he has over his mind and body.

Rain slashes through the darkened afternoon and soaks through his clothes and hair. The icy water is barely enough to direct his attention away from the constant humming of his own bones—they rumble and shake in his eardrums, like a disembodied echo that he knows that he should never be able to hear.

Yet, with each strike that slams into his body and soul, he knows that each heartbeat, each lungful of breath, each cracking bone…

There is no way to deny the way his body reacts. He should be torn apart. These strikes should be killing him. Yet, whether it’s from the presence of the raven-haired warlock behind him or the realization that his soul is welcoming these electric strikes as sustenance, Killua finds the line between mind and body blurring.

“Good, Kil. Embrace the storm. Control it.”

_Zaoldyks never yield._

Killua holds back each and every scream, the internal sound splitting him apart far more viciously than any lightning strike ever could.

* * *

 

 … **Six Years Later** …

 

* * *

“You’re limping.”

Killua rolls his eyes as Gon suddenly stops in the underbrush, turning his head just slightly to match his glare. The courier stubbornly grins and motions forward to keep moving, to keep dragging Killua through this seemingly endless woodland labyrinth.

But, the way his body statically shifts with each step is enough to alert the mage’s attention.

“ _Gon._ Don’t be stupid. I can’t sense Illumi at the moment.”

He tightens his grip on Gon’s hand—so strangely warm and rough—and pulls himself up to the courier’s side. He tilts his head and surveys the other male’s expression, watching as Gon’s eyebrows raise to his hairline and a mischievous grin overtakes his lips.

“If you keep staring at me like that, Killua, I can’t be held responsible for what I might do.”

Killua splutters and snarls. “Idiot! You’re not going to distract me now!” He huffs, raking one hand through his hair. “Just, don’t push it. I feel like you of all people should understand the weight of an injury. I can't even... comprehend, sometimes, how you _function_.”

He glares ahead and releases Gon’s hand, ignoring the way the courier frowns at the loss of touch.

_Stop looking at me like that._

“Let’s just keep moving, then. The faster we move forward with this crazy plan of yours, the faster we can get away from my brother.”

_My brother._

The words taste vile and bitter on his tongue, like aged wine and vinegar.

He wishes, more than anything, that he could scrub the truthful declaration off his tongue and erase the meaning behind it. There is nothing more disgusting to him than feeling the reluctant honesty behind his own words, to know that the truth is inevitable and connecting him to an idea he wishes were anything but real.

“We should be close.”

 Killua stares forward, avoiding Gon’s searching gaze. He doesn’t understand why the weight of such an impenetrable, stubborn look commands Killua into a total standstill.

 _Stop…_ He resists shaking his head. _What’s gotten into you? You can’t be distracted like this._

He clears his throat, nodding dismissively towards Gon before forcing his senses into the clearing around them. The leaves rustle in the distinctive clacking of branches, bark peeling in layers and drifting into the air, and at this moment he reads and records every single detail. The more he lingers on the surrounding details, the better the possibility of him sensing his brother through each part of the forest.

The sky has turned darker. The wind is cooler.

The mountain spires boasting those incredibly large and dangerous nests are becoming more detailed the closer they come, and Killua can spot the distinct traces of silver and white feathers drifting through the trees around them.

“Can’t believe I’m agreeing to this…” Killua grumbles under his breath.

“You sure say that a lot,” says Gon, hiding back a rather smug grin.

Killua snorts at this, but he cracks a small grin in return.

He considers Gon’s words. Thinking of how the possible chances could exist, of him remaining at the courier’s side—the person he’d believed once to be taking him to meet his death—up until now with his own warlock brother tailing after them.

Gon had destroyed the cliff with his own powers, with his anger transforming into the most wicked and violent form of magic Killua had ever witnessed. His eyes had gone dark, like a shadow passing over an amber sea.

The lightning strikes Killua had absorbed against his will years ago paled in comparison to watching Gon’s skin and soul come alive with the burning embers of his emotions.

Killua remains silent, following Gon’s movements through the dark wood. Shadows dance through the leaves and crawl on their clothes and skin, icy cold and thick. They walk for several miles, the forest growing quieter with each step, until Killua stumbles over a root.

He holds back a squeak, barely reaching halfway to hitting the ground as he feels a strong hand grasp his forearm and pull him back to his feet.

The courier stiffens instantly and holds Killua upright. Killua flushes red instantly, bearing the feeling of Gon’s powerful hand keeping his arm—his entire _body_ —steady.

“Killua, are you—”

“I’m fine!”

Killua straightens himself out and rips his arm out of Gon’s hold. The courier blinks at him, tilting his head to the side. Killua growls and stomps ahead, ignoring the strong cloud of heat swarming the nape of his neck. He knows that if he turns around, he’ll be staring straight into an expression colored in nothing but concern.

And that alone makes Killua’s chest flutter.

“Wait, Kil—”

“We can’t keep lagging behind, Gon—”

“Wait, no, Killua—”

“Come on, will you?”

Then, a massive gust of wind bursts through the trees and slams into Killua’s chest. Startled, he drives his heel into the dirt and crouches forward, blocking the current with his left hand. Gon comes over to his side in seconds, immediately stepping forward and instinctively bracing against the currents with his elbow up and covering his face.

His eyes are narrowed, and gleaming with something Killua could only describe as wonderment.

Then, the wind stops, as if placed under a direct halt. Killua holds his breath, swallowing down his nerves as he turns to assess Gon’s features. Usually, the courier would have a somewhat reasonable answer to the woods, or at least the creatures within, though at the moment he is glaring straight into the shadows ahead of them.

Gon flashes a blinding smile towards Killua, and winks.

The mage stiffens.

_That can’t be good._

Another gust of wind surges through the night and shoots towards the skies. Killua is prepared this time, latching onto the soil, grass and rocks beneath his body. Gon does the same, the both of them steadfast against the plunging and sweeping currents.

Killua lifts his head and is almost blinded at the presence of a massive, startling creature—one far larger than the illustrations he’d ever glimpsed in his books from so many years ago.

The bird’s wings are closed against its back, tail and feathers rippling like ocean waves. The silver, white and black currents shimmer and roll in unison with the gusts of wind, each current sliced beneath the beat of its feathers and smooth curling of talons.

“We’re…” Killua blinks. “We’re much closer than I thought we were…”

Gon chuckles. “Yeah. Even with how big they are, moonbeam hawks hunt close to the ground. It makes it easier for mothers to grab larger prey for hatchlings.” He smiles at Killua. “Maybe we’ll be able to see some babies!”

Killua blinks. “We almost got our heads cut off from bird talons— _literally five seconds ago_ —and you want to see if that gigantic bird has _hatchlings_?”

Gon shrugs. “Well, yeah! We might not get a chance like this again.” He gestures with a flick of head towards the cliff spire jutting out of the woods, the top of the cone-like rock supporting the nest and the landed moonbeam hawk. Even from their position low to the earth, Killua spots the distinct spattering of spots on the bird’s long, streamlined tail—like freckles on human skin.

Killua absentmindedly traces the freckles on Gon’s own nose, how distinct and dark they are on his olive-browned skin. Skin that he knows is scarred with a past he wishes to know more about, cut through from the edges of blades and shot with bullets he’s never seen.

When those calloused fingers brush along his temples he’s caught between flinching away and losing himself to the soft, silent strength.

He shakes his head. His heart is already beating faster.

_Stop…_

“I know how we can get its attention,” whispers Gon. He cranes his neck and points to the edge of the cliff where the hawk remains, wings flaring out as it releases a gentle, bell-like trill through the night. “I know some… tricks, that we can use for it to notice me. Just be sure to be quick and follow my lead.”

Killua places his hands in his pockets. “It almost seems like you could talk about these animals for years. Like you know so much about them that it doesn’t even matter in the end.”

Still, the thought of actually following through with what he believes to be Gon’s plan… it’s almost too ridiculous to be true, but here they are, discussing the inevitable and the seemingly impossible.

“You would listen to me, though,” says Gon.

Killua snorts. “Sure. When you’re not being annoying.” He rolls his eyes. “Come on. Illumi could be getting closer. I need to focus and make sure he’s not sneaking up on us.”

Gon nods at this. He watches Killua, assessing him from head to toe with a slow sweep of his eyes. Killua shifts under the attention and turns away, glowering towards the trees from where they came.

“I’ll be back soon.” Gon hesitates, coming closer to Killua. His hands are fidgeting at his sides, a tremor that the mage hadn’t noticed until now. “You—if he shows up—”

“Gon.”

Killua’s whisper and soft frown draws Gon’s attention back to him. Sighing, the mage runs one hand through his hair, tentatively avoiding the piercing look Gon is sending him. “He’s my brother. I know him well. I would rather he find me first before getting to you. If he finds us both in the same vicinity, he’ll try to kill you and you won’t be able to fend him off with just Arcane magic. It needs to be more instant than that.”

His heart clenches at the image of Illumi’s black spells, vicious and sharp, tearing Gon’s limbs from their sockets as he would be forced to watch him bleed into the grass and dirt—

Killua grits his teeth, sighing shakily.

“I’m not _weak_.”

Killua finally meeting Gon’s eyes once more.

The courier’s brow is furrowed, and Killua can read the conflicting thoughts dancing in those warm irises.

“And you know that. Hell, if I didn’t pass out in Masadora I would’ve skinned you alive like some ill-fated cat.” He grins slightly. “So don’t insult me by worrying about it. I’ll keep him away long enough for you to do what you need to do.”

He should have expected the kiss, should have prepared himself for it to happen. But as Gon’s lips meet his, he quivers and returns the gesture a few seconds too late. The sudden warmth of the other’s chest pressed against his and the feel of Gon’s rough, battle-scarred hands cupping his face and pulling him close—it’s enough for his skin to be set aflame.

_You don’t need friends, Kil._

Like a spool of thread, his brother’s voice snakes through his conscious and grabs him whole. He stiffens under Gon’s kiss, his own hands remaining static at his sides. He bunches up the cloth of his shirt in an iron grip, hoping that these meandering thoughts disappear, that he can allow himself to bask in this strange, ethereal warmth Gon exudes as easily as the sun—

_Kill the Arcane._

He pulls away.

“Gon, you should go.”

The courier hesitates, searching him.

Killua bites his lip.

“Do you want me to?”

The question catches him off-guard.

“I—what?”

“Do you want me to, Killua?”

Killua shakes his head. “No, idiot—just, go. I’m not going anywhere. If my brother shows up, I’ll… signal you or something. My magic is slowly returning.”

He dips his head, tempted to test out what he can on some immobile object around him. Are his powers going to return to him soon? They had occurred for a few moments, just a spare few seconds, to allow lightning to strike the cliff and to give Gon the scarce amount of time he needed to think of a plan.

_If Gon is out of Illumi’s path…_

Killua glances off to where the moonbeam hawk remains nested.

“If he touches you,” says Gon, strong and stern, “I’ll kill him.”

Killua barks out a harsh, grating laugh, despite the surprised heave in his chest at hearing such a noble claim.

“You’ll have to get in line for that.” Killua shakes his head. “Now go. I can sense him approaching. He’s been following us for quite some time.”

Gon steps back, hesitantly so, but the fire brimming in his eyes are enough to reach Killua as well. He welcomes the determination, revels in the burning sensation drifting from the tips of his toes to the ends of his fingers.

He wants to replicate the fiery emotions spurring in Gon and turn them into magic—would his lightning be stronger, built upon the power of a core emotion that amplifies the spell being cast?

_Kill the Arcane._

Killua shakes his head.

_Shut the fuck up._

“I know you’re strong, Killua.” Gon’s grin is wide and dimpling, but weaker. Strained. Killua reads the apprehension beneath his unwavering mask. “Doesn’t mean I like the idea of you being hurt when I could be there to protect you.”

Killua’s eyes widen at this. “You…” He turns away, grimacing. “You’re unbelievable…”

_I don’t need protection, moron._

He doesn’t wait for Gon’s reaction; there’s nothing more for the courier to say before he should leave.

The mage steps forward, ignores the steady stream of thought careening inside his skull, and pulls the courier into a much heavier kiss.

Gon grunts beneath the impact, startled at first. Then, he smirks against Killua’s mouth and pulls the mage close to him, tilting his head to reciprocate with strength. With vigor.

Killua’s heart is racing, thumping wildly against his chest.

Gon’s lips are soft, his movements curious as his entire body pushes against Killua and pins him to the back of a tree. He groans at the impact, goose bumps trailing his pale skin. Gon’s hands are steady and focused, trapping him against the bark, his breath warm and his voice hungry as he kisses Killua with so much fervor and recklessness that the mage is hardly able to think.

Gon pulls away, panting. Breathless. His eyes are wild and shining like summer moons, so deeply glistening with heat and passion. Killua nearly crumbles beneath this glare. Gon’s lips—swollen and red and _distracting_ —stretch into a broad, elated smile.

“You kissed me,” he breathes, low and dark and more akin to a growl than anything.

Killua flushes and presses one hand to Gon’s chest, pushing the other male off of him. He brushes down his own clothes and avoids the courier’s heated stare.

“I was the first one to do it, moron. Remember?” Killua rolls his eyes. “We wasted time.”

“Mm.” Gon’s smirk grows smaller as he comes closer to Killua, chuckling. “And who’s fault is that?”

Killua growls, ignoring the dreaded blush seeping through his skin. “Fuck off.” He rolls his eyes. “Gon. Go. Okay? You can’t…” He shakes his head. “The longer you stay, the easier it will be for Illumi to find you.”

Gon then backs off and smiles widely as if nothing at all happened between them.

“Alright! I’ll be back before you know it, Killua!”

Before Killua can open his mouth, Gon presses a kiss to his forehead and dashes off into the night, heading straight for the massive tower of rocks and twigs that make up the moonbeam hawk’s nest.

Resisting the embers sparking in his stomach and the tingle on his lips and forehead, Killua huffs and moves away from the three. He surveys his surroundings, narrowing his eyes into the shadows swallowing up the woods.

“… Stupid courier.”

“Ah, so that is why you were against killing him.”

Killua straightens. He pivots on his foot, turning sharply towards one particular tree standing taller than the rest. He follows up the length of it until his gaze rests on the silhouette of his brother, half-turned from his raven form with his hair caught in strong windy currents.

Illumi is crouching on the tree branch, his brow furrowed. Contemplative.

“You were watching us,” says Killua.

_Is Gon far away? Is he out of earshot?_

The moment Gon would notice Killua’s anxiety, he would return like a dog after its master. The thought is disarming and chills Killua to the bone. He needs to act quickly, and keep Illumi’s attention glued to him while his companion finished the mission accordingly.

Killua clenches his fist, searching for any sign, any indication at all, that his magic is returning.

He leaps back several paces once Illumi drops from the tree in one fell swoop, his wings dissolving into a flourishing cape behind him. He descends upon the grass with elegance and poise, far different from the reckless abandonment Killua had noticed from other warlocks in his younger years.

“It would seem you’ve deluded yourself into a rather fickle realm of emotions.”

Illumi tilts his head, fingertips rubbing together. A purple sphere bursts into life in his grasp, barely seeable from Killua’s position on the grassy clearing.

“You would consider any emotion to be _fickle_.” Killua snorts. “I’m not going to let you control me. Not anymore.”

“Control you? Oh, Kil.” Illumi turns and assesses the wood. The trees stir under a gust of wind as Illumi’s presence alone caused the very weather to change on command. “You and I both know that what I have done for you has only been borne from powers sacred to the Zaoldyks.”

Killua bristles. “No—you, you’ve never told me the truth.”

Energy crackles in his palms.

 _Just a little more._ He needs to concentrate, think harder and longer until he’s able to reach that other plane that he first ventured into so many years ago.

“You kill for the Zaoldyk name, my brother.” Illumi’s figure drifts closer, almost floating over the blades of grass that sway beneath the blackened autumn winds. “You’ve tasted blood before. The moment you accessed your magic, you were able to revive a lost legacy. Grandfather was foolish to believe that your potential should be wasted through normal means.”

Killua grimaces, lifting one hand to his temple. The steady pain is still there, humming and threatening to drain his consciousness as easily as before.

 _Of course._ He snorts. _His magic’s effects never wear off that easily._

The moment Illumi had grabbed his head and told him to kill Gon was the moment he’d latched onto him with cruel and dark, twisted magic—a spell, an incantation from a warlock’s lips that traveled like poison through his mind and soul. He can feel it pulsing, colliding with his bloodstream on the side of some ghostly wall he cannot see.

“Grandfather didn’t force me to kill all those people.”

The sparks in his palms grow stronger. They crackle and burst in tiny clouds in his palms, gathering up the coiled energy sprung through his body in confused rivulets. He needs to direct these into a clean arc, aim for something Illumi wouldn’t expect…

_No. No. He’ll be able to pick up on that. He’ll know. He always knows._

“Force?” Illumi pauses.

His cloak flies around his rounded, milk-white shoulders like the wings of a bird. It strikes Killua with memories he wishes he could forget, alongside the thousands of whiplashes cracked against his back, the haunting whispers circulating through his mind as he stretched his hands out and watched lightning blast past the white stone towers—

“I didn’t… want to…” Killua shakes his head. “No, no, you _did_ force me!”

Illumi pauses at this, the sphere held between his fingertips suddenly growing larger in size. Killua blinks at this and readies himself, his posture straightening. It’s odd, facing his brother like this again while the memories of being ordered to do so are still drifting back and forth behind his eyes like ghosts.

Then, his brother clicks his tongue, snapping the silence in half.

“Hm. Perhaps the Arcane has deluded you into believing this. Yet, there is no denying the importance of embracing your Zaoldyk name. Kil, there are far too many important missions for you to complete, and none of them involve sticking close to the Arcane. If you do not kill him, I will paint the woods with his blood myself.”

Killua’s hands ball into fists. He resists running forward, the temptation of ripping out his own sibling’s throat prevalent and vivid in his mind’s eye.

A low, throaty growl travels through him and slips between his clenched teeth. He steps closer, just barely able to recognize the flurry of slight sparks coasting on his fingertips.

He needs his magic to return fully, to answer his desperate, silent cries.

Begging has never been in his nature, but facing Illumi with nothing to form as his armor… not having the courier at his side—it reminds him of just how incredibly defenseless he just might be.

If Illumi is able to touch him or say another spell with no method of defense to prevent it, Killua could easily become trapped in a form of control once more.

“You won’t go anywhere _near_ Gon.” Killua shakes his head. “You’re not touching him. Ever.”

“It appears that he is still bearing the injuries from his fall. Typical of a reckless Arcane.” Illumi shakes his head. “A shame you were subjected to his presence for this long. Clearly he has attempted to dissuade you from your goals, Kil.”

Killua’s eyes widen. “Your fight is with me, Illumi!”

_Leave Gon out of this._

Then, a bright, cataclysmic circle of energy forms in the grass, splitting apart pebbles and upturned tree roots with ease. A ghostly purple veil lifts from the earth and encompasses Illumi’s form, his long black hair and robe hovering in the grasp of otherworldly magic. He traces his pointed toe in the soil, though his blank, onyx eyes never leave Killua’s frozen form.

_A glyph. He’s casting a glyph._

He will be able to track Gon easily if he sends out a glyph—a tracker of sorts.

“Your foolish ideals will land you in the same place as it did for that… _thing_ ,” Illumi whispers, his voice turning as frigid as ice. “You were too attached then, too, even before Mother and Father passed, before they insisted I separate you from such disgusting _distractions_.”

Killua’s thoughts come to an abrupt halt at this.

“What are you talking about?”

Illumi lifts his arm, a sphere forming in the upturned palm of his hand.

Killua braces himself. He’s still not strong enough, not nearly stable enough to call back his magic and allow Gon even more time to find the moonbeam hawk. If he fails in this, he will fail the courier, and he can’t allow the wall keeping Killua from Gon to crumble like this.

“You should not concern yourself with lesser species.” The warlock tilts his head. “If you insist to fight, however, my little brother…”

Killua stumbles, his veins stuttering in a familiar glowing blue as the clearing becomes encased in a vile, desperate sort of energy—a magic he hasn’t felt in years. Each pulse forms from the glyph carved into the earth from his brother’s touch. Grass cuts away and rocks fly off and crumble into fragments as the energy raises and soars through the night, combing across Killua’s muscles and stabbing like pin-needles through his skin.

He grimaces, panic seeping through him.

He recognizes these prickling sensations instantly.

_A time-freezing spell._

Then, Killua brings up one clenched fist, and fiercely clenches his fingers into his palms. He closes his eyes, breathing, counting, hoping to the deepest core of his heart that the sparks in his hands burst into life.

 _Please_. He breathes shakily. _I need to fight. I can’t let him win. Not again._

Killua’s breath hitches, stopping ferociously in his lungs. He leans back and reaches for his throat, a steady and rough pulse from something ethereal—something he hasn’t felt in what seems to be eons—streaking up his ribs, his spine, and launching through his skull.

He bites back a scream as a dozen blinding white flashes block out his vision, replacing the approaching silhouette of his warlock brother with…

He shakes his head.

Time stops.

As if submerged in a cloud of water—thick and obstructive and clear—he falls forward onto the now-white, blank earth beneath him.

He can feel the grass’s shape beneath his fingers, yet sees nothing but white.

Killua blinks.

The entire clearing—the forest, the mountains, the trees, the moonbeam hawk, his brother, Gon, his entire _world_ —has completely vanished.

From as far as he can see, the outlines of cliffs, of the occasional tree, of leaves swiftly dancing in the sharp air, of grass blades tingling his skin… it all appears as faintly stenciled outlines of the world he’s known.

_Stay calm._

He holds his breath, trembling slightly.

_Think. Where could you be right now?_

He’s not unconscious. Illumi hadn’t reached him in time, and the glyph would have paralyzed him for only a few seconds before he would be able to recognize the warlock’s intrusive presence. No, these endless white lands, these strange blank inversions of what he’s been allowed to absorb on a long, strenuous journey… no, none of it seems real, yet none of it seems to be a figment of his mind, either.

His heart still beats. He can hear his panicked breathing and the blood roaring in his ears.

He’s still awake. Still moving.

_I still have time._

While he can feel the grass beneath him, there’s nothing indicating the movement of wind currents, or even the smells he’d experienced in the woodlands.

He’s never been here before.

Yet…

Killua’s brow furrows. A sharp, familiar, searing pain tears through his brain and knocks against his forehead. He groans and rubs the sore area, biting back a curse. He glances around him, but Illumi is not in the vicinity. Even his presence, as powerful and dangerous as it is, cannot be detected in this strange blinding white world.

“I…”

He blinks at the sound of his own voice. It’s not like his own, carrying the weight of an echo, a lost tunnel of words in a void where it doesn’t belong.

 “I’ve been here before,” he finishes, curiously glaring towards the unmoving white grass and the equally paper-white canvas of what he assumes to be this world’s sky.

Perhaps this was a flaw in his magic?

No, that couldn’t be possible. He would have experienced a vision like this years ago, when he first harnessed his magic and allowed the electric currents to drift and sway through his body.

Then, he spots an unfamiliar outline in the strange white land.

Hundreds of yards ahead of him, crouching low to the ground and rifling with pale, nearly untraceable hands through the fake grass, is a tiny shape that Killua can barely identify as human.

Killua watches, mesmerized against his will, as the figure lifts from the grass.

The blank whiteness consuming the human shape begins to recede, leaving behind the outline of a robe—no, a _dress_ —swaying about a frail pair of ankles and framed by long, thick hair. He notes the outline of a necklace made of beads, gently coiled around thin wrists.

The longer Killua’s gaze remains attached to the stranger, the more he watches color begin to bleed into this world, so startling and hypnotic and familiar that he can barely manage to glance away. The sleeves of the stranger’s dress turn bright pink and green, the jade beads shining periwinkle. A glossy raven sheen coasts along the stranger’s long hair, dark and again, oh so familiar.

Killua stares at his hands, confusion ebbing into his heart.

He’s trembling, shaking like a leaf caught in a storm.

He looks back up towards the stranger, and his heart freezes inside his chest. His thoughts come to an abrupt, startling halt.

The stranger—the _girl’s_ —eyes are unmistakable.

Large, expressive, gentle and freeing and as soft and blue as coral beds in the bottom of the ocean, they address him with surprise, with wonder, and then a definitive glimmer of recognition as the stranger, too, trembles upon seeing Killua.

As if charging headfirst through a curtain of ice-cold water, Killua’s mind _opens_.

And then, a name leaves his parted lips, so silent, so tentative, that it’s barely there at all.

“… Alluka?”


	13. Turnabout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I'm just so blown away by the love this story receives and the people I've talked to about this story and the joy I feel with posting these chapters. There's something so freeing and wonderful and satisfying about writing for Wayward Souls. It's a more personal work, and it means so much to me that... it's actually a bit intense. More than intense. Hard to describe, really. 
> 
> Thank you to each person who reads this story, who have left kudos, bookmarks, comments, all of it. It continues to mean the most to me as a writer, and I will be responding to previous comments on the last chapter as soon as this one is posted. Much overdue, and I apologize for not keeping up with replies. It honestly means the world.
> 
> Special thank you to my friend and beta, Shawnathin93, who continues to be unbelievably meticulous and detailed with his overviews of my chapters. 
> 
> This was a very difficult chapter to write, but it was the most satisfying to finish, and is easily my favorite so far. It's a chapter that, in the outlining process, went through many revisions, and many final choices I made for this story rests in this chapter and the turns that will occur. Thank you for being on this journey, and for continuing as it nears its end. 
> 
> Enjoy the next chapter, wonderful people! I'm so thankful for all of you!

“Think there was something Ging said once, about how Freecss men don’t sulk. So, care to enlighten me as to why you’re out here alone?”

A grin crinkles the corner of Gon’s mouth. He lifts and stretches his arms above his head, a gust of sharp wind gliding through his sleeves and over his arms. He whistles under his breath and jovially kicks his heels in the marked soil.

“Mm. I’m not sulking. Just thinking,” Gon says. “Think I remember you saying that I don’t do that enough, or something. Isn’t that right, Commander?” He winks at the older male leaning against the doorway to the gardens.

Kurapika Kurta’s entire body tightens. He lifts himself from his position beside the tower, studying Gon with eyes like glinting steel. Removed from his protective armor, he appears slender and demure in a long-sleeved cotton shirt and trousers, the blood washed from his skin.

To strangers, he appeared too small, too frail and youthful with his alabaster skin and silken blond hair. His features were not considered threatening in the slightest, even when he bolstered the enchanted chainmail sleeves on the battlefield, shouting orders until his throat bled and his eyes shone as red as the harvest moon.

Kurapika had understood Gon’s distorted magic upon first glance, years before when Gon was far too young to know the repercussions of his father’s actions.

“Hm. That may be so,” Kurapika says, steadily approaching Gon with his arms folded, “but it makes me wonder. About you.”

Gon frowns. “Not sure what you mean by that, Kurapika.”

“So you’re telling me you’re not bothered by all this?” Kurapika sweeps his arm over the scenery before them, not once breaking his concentrated glare on Gon. “Your father might be able to turn off all of what’s… happened, and pretend that it’s amounting to victory in the long run, but I know you better than that, Gon. Even _you_ never lose control like that.”

_Lose control._

Gon licks his lips, humming in thought.

He turns to look over the wide expanse of bloodstained grass and corpses littering the property grounds. Large wagons overlain with leather tarps are stacked with fresh and cold bodies around the gardens, limbs flailing about like ragdolls.

He remembers the sickening crunch of bone echoing in his ears, veins aglow in trails of molten embers under his skin. The screeches of the valiant and the dying streaking the tower’s walls and gardens— _metal boots stomping over roses, arrows notched onto weathered strings, muffled cries behind metal masks and beastly mouths_ —ringing incessantly in Gon’s memory.

It’s disorienting, to even consider that the bruises and welts frozen around the throats of the fallen Ants are from his own hands.

“Think we’ve both seen enough to learn how to not be bothered by it,” says Gon with a shrug.

He turns away from Kurapika’s blank look, snatching the waist of one of the bodies and lifting it over his shoulder. He grunts at the exertion and moves to place the corpse on one of the wagons. He brushes sweat from his brow, the breeze dry on his tongue.

The air is thick with copper and mulch, straining the insides of his mouth. His breath would taste the same for hours; long after all of the bodies were removed from broken banisters and wooden blocks supporting spare suits of armor.

Kurapika remains quiet. Though, even with his back turned to him, Gon hears the rustling of the other’s slippers on grass and dirt, the occasional heaving _whoosh_ of body after body being thrown onto something heavy. He turns and bites back a smile at the sight of the seasoned warrior following his motions and gathering each fallen soldier after another, the disgust and hesitation still ingraining lines into his features.

By the time they are both finished, the wagons are stacked off to the cobbled wall surrounding the tower gardens. Lilies and roses, withered and desperate for life, still reach up towards the sky with frayed leaves and wilted stems.

The petals are still falling, Gon notes, while he crosses his legs on the browning grass and rolls his shoulders forward. Sweat stains his back and shimmers on his skin. He turns over his calloused palms, flexing his knuckles to further admonish the cuts and bruises attained from the night before. They pale in comparison to the scars branded into his flesh from years of fighting the same battle, in a time where he’d considered avenging his aunt’s death to be the reason to control his unnatural gifts.

Kurapika takes a seat beside him, his presence a marble shadow next to Gon.

“He told me, you know,” says Kurapika.

Gon hums and traces a circle in the dirt with his shoe. “Hm?”

“About your mission.” Kurapika holds his tongue, waiting for Gon to fill in the silence, but the other male fails to oblige. Rolling his eyes, Kurapika clears his throat and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “You know, the one about the criminal. He asked me to make arrangements for you—”

“Ah, right.” Gon grins. “Hm. Ging said I would get a courier’s letter in a few days. I think.” He rests his chin in the palm of his hand, brow furrowed and golden eyes alight with wonder. “I want to leave now, though.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t left already,” Kurapika admits, a twitch to his smile. “Have you thought of a plan to convince them to go along with your… scheme, I guess?”

Gon laughs. “Well, I don’t really have a plan. Don’t think I’ll need one. If I have the coordinates to trace my steps back here from wherever the prisoner is kept, that should be enough, right?” He smiles at Kurapika. “I mean, that’s part of what makes it exciting.”

Kurapika blinks, studying him quietly.

“… Sometimes I wonder how you’re still alive, with that way of thinking. Then again, it makes sense that you would think like that on the battlefield. Running headfirst into the Red Plains like some deranged monkey.”

Gon frowns at this, tilting his head. “Deranged monkey?”

“Yes, Gon. A deranged monkey.” Kurapika sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Obviously I understand the effects of being an Arcane, and the repercussions that go along with that. It’s not easy, having this… _detached_ form of magic that we can’t control based on our emotions. But what you did in the Red Plains, against Pitou—”

Gon cuts him off with one look, a glare hardened into stone. Kurapika clamps his mouth shut. Long, slow seconds pass in the murky currents over the garden, binding each thought that Gon wishes to say in return and shoving it back behind his throat before he loses control.

He turns away from Kurapika and stands up from the block.

Kurapika reaches for Gon’s wrist, biting back an apology.

“Gon, wait—”

“Pitou’s gone now, so it shouldn’t matter, right?” Gon’s voice grates on Kurapika’s nerves like steel on wood. His back is rigid and taut, turned away from Kurapika with his voice too low to distinguish at first. “You know it’s hard to control, sometimes.”

Kurapika freezes.

“Yes. I do understand that. Our core emotions—what makes us who we are—”

“If I was still twelve and unaware of how war works, how magic works on both sides, I would believe what you’re about to say.” Gon faces him, his lips drawn in a tight line and hands balling into fists at his sides. His entire body grows solid as granite beneath the blazing sun. “But, if I can’t use what I have to defend others from people like the ones who killed Aunt Mito,” he pauses, drawing in a long, agonizing breath, “then there’s no point.”

Kurapika’s teeth grit. His own temperament flares beneath his skin in winding rivers.

“I’ve seen my own people die, slaughtered in front of me… you have _no excuse_ to keep running into battle with no plan and placing everyone else in danger—”

“ _Kurapika_.”

His words strike Kurapika in the chest like a spear, teetering on the edge of impulsiveness and rage that would eventually place them both in a stalemate.

Kurapika refrains from saying another word.

They keep their distance. Back to back. Muscles coiled like springs, ready to strike.

It isn’t long before dusk swallows the receding sun and silence envelops the tower fortress.

Recruits for Ging’s regime flood the gardens and prepare the bonfires. Torches raise to the lumps of wood and rotting flesh and bone forming mountains on the fields, crowned in white-hot flames.

It’s eerily quiet.

Kurapika shoves his hands into his pockets, his fellow comrades washed away in shadows around him. He holds back a sneer even as the torches are lowered and prayers are whispered into the first few minutes of nightfall.

The idea of burning the dead and allowing even the most forsaken enemies to find some form of peace in the afterlife seems needless. Kurapika’s grey irises fall onto the towering spire of flames, so strangely macabre in the setting where Ging rather dismissively decided the bodies to be “removed from the world indefinitely.”

Blooming wildflowers crest the border of the clearing, the petals soon rimmed with ash clouds and tendrils of smoke.

Kurapika’s stomach twists into knots. He glances over the relieved, exhausted faces of men and women he’d commanded into the siege of battle, and lingers on the familiar form of the youngest recruit of them all.

Gon Freecss is a green-cloaked wisp, composed of natural strength and unbendable anger. The sight of him even now, his amber stare littered with hidden sparks that rival the power of real fire, causes Kurapika’s fingers to twitch.

He’s the only other Arcane Kurapika has encountered, with a core emotion that should have warned him of the potential dangers and bloodshed that would follow. The idea of revenge was so common, so _rich_ between them; a thread of silk both flexible and easy to cut.

Perhaps, it shouldn’t have been surprising that Gon was the one to rip Neferpitou’s heart clean out of her chest.

* * *

 

… **Three Months Later**...

 

* * *

“Oh,” Gon breathes, taking soft steps onto the nest of thick, twining branches and loose silver-pale feathers, “your eyes are like the stars.”

His whisper drifts into the night, his smile a pearly sickle against his darkened skin. He keeps his distance from the curled lumps of talons and blinding white fuzz— _hatchlings_ , he presumes—and trails his hands over the edge of the nest. He’s still breathing heavily from his sprint up the side of the rock pillar, fiercely grabbing mounds of soil and upturned roots to allow him safe, quick passage to the nest of the closest moonbeam hawk.

It smells faintly of rust and spring water. A tranquil fragrance wrapping tightly around the rapid beating of his own heart.

The mother hawk lifts her neck, the beak curved and sharp like the end of a hook. She blinks one eye—luminous and gold, like comets dashing across the sky—while her head slowly tilts in observing Gon’s intrusive presence in her nest. He maintains his smile and posture, muscles tight and prepared to sprint if need be.

“You’re beautiful,” says Gon. “Heh, but you probably already know that.”

He grins sheepishly, focusing on the small details that pepper the bird’s slender neck and spreading wings. The silver glints like flints from a sword, shining brighter than diamonds beneath the waning moon.

The bird releases a low trill, vibrating the nest. It lilts high and quivers at the end of a note, its wings spreading far and wide and shielding over the resting hatchlings. Gon leans back, pressing one hand to the interwoven branches and using his other hand to maintain balance.

Gon bites the inside of his cheek.

“Hm. You remind me of someone I know,” he says. “He wasn’t very trusting of me, either.” He chuckles as the bird leans back, defensive. Strong.

She’s older than most, he realizes, with the faint shedding of her down feathers and the glint to her stormy eyes. They follow him like lanterns, carrying knowledge and experience that wouldn’t be founded in the stellar counterparts of her own species.

Gon sighs. “I should’ve brought him with me. Something tells me he would’ve convinced you right away. He’s basically a human version of you.” He spreads out his arms for emphasis, grinning as the bird blinks and follows his movements. “Skin and hair like your feathers. He’s strong, and a little stubborn. If you come with me, we can go save him together. Ah, but, he wouldn’t like it if we both let him know that we were _rescuing_ him.” He presses one finger to his lips, winking. “So, it can be a secret between us.”

His breathing is labored and his heart is threatening to squeeze between his ribs and slam into his chest. The exhilaration, the absolute joy that spreads through his body is easy to bypass in favor of the concern he feels for Killua being left behind.

He knew, from the beginning, that this was a risky plan. A scheme with potentially no success.

Yet, the more he watches the bird relax beneath the moonlight with each second that passes, the more Gon believes in his chances of success.

As if sensing his thoughts, the moonbeam hawk lowers her body to the nest, feathers fluffing like clouds. She studies him, searching him and picking apart each minute movement while one wing remains outstretched and hovering over her hatchlings.

_Protective, smart and beautiful._

Gon snickers.

_You really are like them, Killua._

Ging had told him once of moonbeam hawks courting their mates by soaring through the sky at dawn, as if challenging the sun to a duel with their bodies striped in the silvers and whites of the moon. The males were smaller than females by wingspan and girth, drawn to the power and elegance that bloomed from their dawn-breaking flights. The females would croon like ghosts, their chosen partners gliding beneath them, interlocking talons and spiraling towards the earth like collapsing stars.

With the many illustrations and painted murals Gon had seen with his own two eyes—through years growing up under Ging’s distant tutelage—he had wondered how a creature like this would appear in the flesh.

And now, being so close to one in person, Gon can imagine this mystical bird sailing through the clouds, wings outstretched and clapping like thunder.

“My name is Gon.”

He smiles brightly. The hawk lowers, feathers ruffling in the chilly breeze. He inches closer, his lips twitching and sweat caking his skin and trembling hands; he needs to be cautious, more aware of his surroundings than ever before. 

He glances up, his head staring straight up into the heaving chest and bright eyes of the hawk.

He steadies himself, his breath a shallow current between human and beast.

The thrill of what’s to come sings in Gon’s blood.

“I’m going to borrow your wings to help someone very important to me.”

Time comes to a standstill as Gon slowly reaches forward, fingertips brushing the silver-and-white splashed flank. The hawk’s chest rumbles with contained lightning, vibrating calmly under Gon’s tentative touch.

He smirks to himself.

_Wait just a little longer, Killua._

* * *

 

 

* * *

_Alluka…_

It’s a name that doesn’t belong to a stranger. It’s attached to a face blurred by darkness, wrapped tightly in flexible barriers he can’t peel back. He wants to rip apart the layers like folds of paper and demand some sort of sense in a void that he wishes he could call his own mind without hesitation.

He lowers himself to the ground, a shocking weight pulling him downwards like gravity. He slumps forward, nausea stirring in his stomach. His hands quake at his sides, fingers diving into the grass— _grass whiter than silk, whiter than snow, whiter than what he imagines the purest light could be_ —and he looks up at the girl.

She shouldn’t be real.

Ivory skin, a weak smile, a frail figure draped in deep pink and green silks, tentative fingers grazing the blinding white flowers blooming in the fields. She stares and never blinks, watching him with bated breath—a sculpture of a memory he holds onto with what’s left of his control.

He knows her, and doesn’t know why.

“Brother?” She echoes.

Her voice soars like a broken bell.

_Brother?_

Killua braces his hands over his knees, his grip impossibly tight in hopes to somehow vent the energy building up inside. He can no longer feel sparks snaking over his knuckles, or the tremors of power careening through his soul. He grits his teeth and bites into his tongue, just to feel something, _anything_ , that could confirm what he’s seeing is real.

And then, the girl moves.

She’s _running._

Panic explodes in Killua’s chest. He doesn’t know where he is, he knows this girl’s name but he has no idea where she’s come from, and the fact that he’s now here, away from Illumi, makes him wonder if this entire place is a figment of his imagination—

Her arms wrap around his shoulders and pull him in. He chokes out a gasp, arms stiff and legs numb, heart pushing to break the confines of his chest. The scent of clay and the faintest traces of lavender flood his nostrils. Every instinct to run away, every inclination that hums in Illumi’s voice and attempts to pull him back, slams into nothingness.

He’s frozen, unsure of what to do with his hands. This girl— _Alluka_ , he recalls—feels as real as the muted white world around them.

His left hand hovers over the girl’s back, and threads into her braids. Soft, thick black hair runs in waves beneath his palm.

“I thought you were gone forever,” she whispers into his neck. It’s a sound too forbidden and haunting to hear this close, this tightly pressed to his ear and against his skin.

Killua’s mouth runs dry. He shakes, every muscle and bone responding to the presence of this girl crushed into his chest, arms wrapped around him in an embrace so tight it rivals the many chains and manacles he’d once worn against his will.

“I don’t…” He bites his tongue.

The heavy weight seizing his gut spills over and claims him entirely, pushing every hesitation and question to the forefront. He tenderly takes the girl’s shoulders and removes her from him, tracing every curve and track of tears that flows down the doll-like stranger’s porcelain cheeks. He steadies himself, willing the confusing throttling of his heart to remain poised.

Slowly, tentatively, he lifts his hands from her shoulders to graze her face. Her skin is ice-cold, wet like pearls.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” he chokes, his jaw quivering, “I don’t… remember, who you are.”

_I know you._

He swallows.

The pain in his chest is too unbearable for him to ignore, caused by a force he doesn’t recognize. The moment he’d seen the girl’s bright blue eyes and felt her name roll off his tongue, he knew she was somehow important. More than just a stranger. More than a figment of a person, an idea that he couldn’t exactly pinpoint.

_You know me, too._

The fact that he isn’t able to link this girl’s image to the black dashes in his mind infuriates him.

The girl blinks, and he expects her to cry, or scream, or stomp her feet into the grass and pull on his hair—mannerisms he swears he’s seen before, somehow—but instead, her lips twitch into a frown. An expression so soft, so tender and understanding as it laces a line across her pale, pale face, that Killua can hardly find the ability to breathe.

“It’s okay, Brother,” she says with a giggle, “that’s what the Shadow Man said when he took you away. You were smaller though, when that happened.” She takes Killua’s hands and presses them harder against her cheeks, her smile broad and affectionate. “Let’s go, then, Brother! I want to show you what you’ve missed!”

In a flash, she’s standing upright in the grass and pulling him to his feet. She runs, faster than he expects, a glowing beacon of light and color in this strange whitewashed place.

_Another dimension, maybe?_

Killua stills. “Wait, I—I have some questions—”

“Let’s go to the hidden place, first!” She chirps. “That will help you!”

Killua’s chest caves in at her sparkling blue eyes. She looks at him as if she carries her world on his shoulders and hasn’t failed once.

_So why does this feel so untrue?_

It’s all so familiar, yet distant. The rational part of him considers that his memories could have been subdued or erased entirely through Illumi’s magic, yet that would require years of extensive practice. For that to remain unnoticed in the background while growing up under Illumi’s tutelage seems inconceivable to him.

He’s not dreaming.

Killua only nods, allowing the girl he knows to be Alluka to pull him through the patterns of looming trees and planes of white grass and flowers. He breathes in air that tastes synthetic on his tongue, the smells void and distant, like washed out imitations of what they were meant to be.

The more he lets himself be pulled and his mind to stay locked onto Alluka, the more he notices the strange, warped quality to this place he swears he’s seen before.

_The hidden place…_

It clings to him like tree sap. Like every other aspect of this world.

They come to a stop between two outlines of what Killua assumes to be rocky crevices of a cliff. It opens up to him and Alluka like a fresh wound. He ducks his head beneath the split crack that dashes down the side of the collapsed boulders in lightning patterns. His fingers drift over the dark lines, as black as ink in contrast to the white stone.

“Oh! That wasn’t always there,” says Alluka.

Killua retracts his hand as if the rock burned him.

“Um. Right.” He turns away from her. “I—look, is the… hidden place, in there? Under these cracks? You can’t really hear any running water or even wind in the trees.”

Alluka giggles. “You really don’t remember a lot at all.” She swings her arms back and forth, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “But the place in there hasn’t changed since you were stolen.” She bites her lip, the gesture both childish and tragic with each second that passes.

Killua steels himself, and the sensation of something cold and unfamiliar entering his senses nearly makes him stumble.

_A tiny hand pulling at his hair, weaving flowers whiter than their skin into his locks. A faint chorus of giggles, sweet and gentle like jasmine. His own laughter, quiet and subdued. Happy. Their hands matching in unison, an insatiable power surging between the contact like two oceans meeting down the middle. Her tears, vivid and endless. Her voice, snapping in half as a screech that bellows across the white fields towards him, yet he pulls farther and farther away—_

Killua holds his tongue, teeth grinding. His knees shake.

“We’ve been here many times,” he starts.

Alluka blinks up at him, having ducked halfway to enter through the sharp split down the middle of the rocky spire. She stares, her mouth opening slightly as if unsure of what to say next, her gaze shimmering as unified oceans; too big and too blue.

“Am I really your brother?”

His question strikes Alluka.

He watches as his words sink in and cause the little girl’s eyes to widen, her entire body trembling as if unwilling to accept what he’d just said. His tongue curls behind his teeth, the set of questions he wants to spur into the open suddenly bubbling like poisonous brew.

Silent, Alluka threads her fingers into his, and leads him through the sharp crack in the stone. Killua ducks and braces his body against the white, claustrophobic walls pouring over his back and compressing to his sides. He wills himself to remain quiet, the sound of his own heartbeat louder than any external noise transpiring between him and the girl who resembles nothing more than a phantom in his mind’s eye.

The tunnel ends. Patches of the same white grass obscure the black lines that form the cracks and pebbles under Killua and Alluka’s feet. His grip tightens around Alluka’s hand, his brow furrowing as he takes in the new details of this space.

_A cave?_

He clicks his tongue. Alluka flashes him a meek smile, and proceeds to tug him along behind her.

“Why…?”

He stops, and studies the presence of the stones around them, the grass blades standing as frozen as ice, and how their white forms bleed into streaks of color. Deep green paints the grass in a crown, winding around the spring contained within the cave.

The water is clear as crystal and as blue as Alluka’s eyes. The sound of running waves draws Killua’s attention up to the crack in the cave that reveals the tumble and fall of new water from the mouth; crisp, ageless and undeterred from the deafening silence of the white world.

The bright, luminous gold, pink and blue flowers twining in vines around the spring fade into white once they reach the point where Killua and Alluka are standing.

It’s strangely familiar, watching how the petals on chrysanthemums and hydrangeas lose their color once they reach too far from the spring.

“This is Brother’s favorite place,” says Alluka. She glances at him, her smile unsettling. Unbreakable and fragile at the same time.

Killua softens. He resists the urge to pull her closer to him, to further entrance himself to believing that she is real. She walks in color and breathes life into this muted place, like the very spring where she’s led him to. She couldn’t possibly be borne from this world, where not one sound rustles in the open outside of her own footsteps?

“Where are we, Alluka?”

She hums and smiles. “You always ask me that when you visit! Even the Shadow Man doesn’t ask me anything when he comes.”

Killua frowns. “The Shadow Man?”

“Yeah,” says Alluka, softer now as she tenderly tugs him forward to the spring.

Killua hesitates at first, wondering if the grass that looks real and not like strands of shredded paper will affect him. He rolls his eyes at his own thoughts and proceeds, coming to the side of the spring beside Alluka.

She crosses her legs and hums a tune under her breath, dipping her soft hands into the water.

 _There’s a reason_.

Killua hangs onto what’s left of his patience. He wants—no, he _needs_ to know why he can’t remember everything about this girl beside him. This person, who echoes a sense of life and unbridled spirit within him that he wishes he could connect with, yet can’t without the images remaining void and black in his heart and mind.

“Alluka. Please.”

He runs one hand through his hair, grimacing at the fresh sheen of sweat caking his scalp. He wonders how he appears in the world where he originally was; was Illumi still attacking him, still attempting to paralyze him with a glyph?

“I need to get back. To my world. As soon as possible, and—I know that we’ve met. That I know you.”

_Even so, I can’t explain why I don’t want to leave._

What caused him to be sent here in the first place?

At first, Alluka remains silent, contemplative as she picks flowers from the edge of the pool. She fumbles with the stems, transfixed on the healthy green appendages and feathery petals.

“Did you bring me here, Alluka?” Killua watches, silent, as the girl flutters her lashes at him, a smile blooming upon her lips. “The Shadow Man… is his name—do you remember his name? What he looked like? What he sounded like? The last time I was here?”

Alluka shrugs. “Brother, you already forgot!” She pouts, folding her arms over her chest. “I don’t remember what the Shadow Man was called.” She sighs. “You didn’t like him either, though. You promised to come back and you didn’t.”

Killua frowns. “There’s a lot that I don’t remember.” He pushes aside his hesitation and quickly takes Alluka’s hands in his. Her palms are smooth to the touch and easily mold against his hands. It’s familiar and disconcerting, striking him like his own lightning. “But I _want_ to. Can you help me, Alluka? Can you help me remember?”

The pregnant pause that engulfs the two of them is painful. Killua’s breathing turns labored in seconds, his unsureness prickling on his skin like goose bumps. He searches Alluka’s features, her teeth nibbling on her bottom lip and her nose scrunched in concentration.

Then, Alluka stares into his eyes, her gaze piercing him like icicles. She nods, and it’s the only gesture Killua needs to completely relax.

Her hands intertwine with his, her grip tightening.

His heart beats faster. He holds back another question, keeping his ears open to the silence that follows. He turns his neck, just slightly, to see the water freezing in place and the color rapidly vanishing from the spring, stones and flowers kept secret within this very cave.

_What…?_

He turns back to the girl, his open mouth clamming shut as he absorbs the image of a person who is definitely not Alluka.

The face staring back at him is a gaping mask with twin black holes for eyes and a frozen, shadowed smile.

Chills spread through Killua’s body. He’s seen this face, this odd ghostly essence that trails over his skin and alights an unknown spark in his mind. It’s a frightening appearance, so ironically docile and somehow friendly against the backdrop of white noise. He recalls faint whispers, childish and innocent, lost in a frayed mist that calls out to him in disparate echoes.

 _Something_.

He steadies his body, wondering if it’s his mind swaying first or vice versa.

“You’re Nanika. You’re a part of Alluka.” Hearing it out loud should surprise him as much as it did when he’d said Alluka’s name aloud for the first time. “And you can help me remember.”

_You can help me get back._

Back to where his brother is surely standing still as a statue, wondering how Killua’s mind could have arrived here on its own. Back to the courier—Gon—probably having gone through with his idiotic, reckless plan and attempting to rescue him like he seemed so determined to do. He needs to return to where he was, to stake some foothold in the events transpiring around him.

Nanika tilts her head to the side, as if admonishing him. Killua remains steadfast under her blank stare. Despite the tentative layer of emotion hidden beneath this mask-like face, he reads the solemnity, the sadness, the loneliness that rolls off her shadowed smile.

He absorbs it all, takes it in, and immediately wishes to cleanse the darkness billowing through each phrase from the inside-out.

It’s both a feeling he knows all too well, like an unkempt scar, and a completely alien sensation that ripples like tendrils of fire in his stomach. He leans forward subconsciously, and stiffens as Nanika reciprocates the gesture, removing her hands from his grasp and placing them over his temples.

He stills, watching her, silent, _mesmerized_ , as she presses her forehead to his.

In that moment, a dreaded weight slams into his chest, pulls every panicked word out of him, and tosses him into a deep, cold abyss.

* * *

 

 

* * *

Adrenaline rushes through Gon’s system like crackling fireworks.

He heaves himself further along the hawk’s back, his fists balling over the feathers around the thick, tree trunk neck and finding tufts where he can place his body. He scurries against the sharp, near-winter winds, the currents sliding through his ruffled cloak and sparking his nerves and organs into overdrive. With each second that passes, he firms his hold, contracting nearly every muscle in his body to conform to the slick gliding and swaying of the bird, wings spread out impossibly large beside him.

His eyes harden into a glare, peering over the bird’s right wing into the trenches below. The forest is an endless sea of dark, shadowed green and gnarled branches. He scopes the scene below them, until finally his gaze rests on the clearing where he’d left Killua to find the moonbeam hawk’s nest.

His heart lurches.

The dark warlock— _Illumi Zaoldyk_ , Gon recalls—stands as a pillar of marble skin and crow’s wing hair even in dusk. His hand is outstretched, a beetle-like motion from Gon’s vantage point on top of the hawk’s back. However, the warlock is not moving, serpentine bolts of purple energy flying from his fingers and coiling in on itself like an orb frozen in time.

Gon bites his lip and leans up to the bird’s head, tenderly running his hand along the feathers and pinching the tufts of flesh where he knows the creature is most sensitive. Releasing a slight trill, the mother moonbeam hawk slows her pace and snaps her wings, paralleling her back. Gon braces his fists and breathes shakily, smirking to hide his relief.

“We need to go down,” he says, with far too much confidence for someone who knows this beast won’t be able to understand his language.

Though, before he can issue another command, the hawk’s wings fold to its back. Gon blinks, his blood roaring deafeningly in his ears as he holds on tighter than before. He grits his teeth, hopes to every god above that Killua is willing to be patient with how this creature moves when it’s time for him to fly on it as well.

As soon as the wings collapse onto the spine and hover over Gon, he knows what’s to come.

The hawk plummets to the earth, twisting in a ferocious, clean dive. Gon’s heart and lungs ricochet in unison, his bones rattling from the pressure of wind whistling between the folded wings and colliding against his eardrums. He keeps his jaw tight and registers the noise and weight under his body, his right hand fumbling and flying loose from its grip on the flesh and feathers.

He forces every ounce of strength within him to strain his neck and glimpse through the faintest split through the wings, a seam down the middle that reveals the back of mother hawk’s head as she dives, and the outline of the forests they will surely crash into unless she brakes.

He grins, and grips on tighter.

“I’m about to do something crazy, girl,” he yells.

His words have no meaning to the bird, but he hopes she can somehow understand him all the same.

They’re close. He sees Illumi, the warlock staring blankly towards Killua, the both of them keeping their distance yet quiet and frozen all the same.

_No, don’t think right now._

Gon holds his breath.

_Just move. Just attack._

Right as the hawk drives her talons forward and straightens her spine, working as a brace against the sharp winds, Gon takes this spare second to leap through the opening gap between her wings.

His throat scorches with the burning gusts flying through his clenched teeth. His body turns compact, hard as rock, an electric sensation spurring through his balled fists and tightened arms.

The direction from where the hawk had abruptly stopped in the air made it possible for him to take one startling leap of faith, and pinpoint his target.

Illumi turns his head just slightly, right as Gon’s body pummels directly into him.

The warlock staggers, his legs shifting from the purple glyph imprinted in the soil. Gon reacts with a swift punch to the warlock’s cheek, colliding with his jaw and snapping bones on impact.

Then, Illumi whips his head back towards Gon, those irises flashing like obsidian shards, and rams his hand right into Gon’s chest. The courier’s stomach launches towards his spine, an unfathomable burst of pain racing through his body, numbing and poisonous to the touch.

He opens his mouth, gusts of breath yanked directly out of his chest.

Gon barely registers what’s happened as Illumi grabs the back of his head and slams his entire body to the ground.

He bounces on impact, his spine popping despite the quick, instinctive need to harden his bones with what’s left of his Arcane energy. His vision blocks out in black dots, and immediately moves to somehow regain his balance with a hazy mind and fumbling arms. He searches the ground, and lurches, vomiting onto the grass.

“ _Pathetic_ ,” the warlock says.

Gon snarls through clenched teeth, barely able to turn his head to say something in return when the warlock slaps his long-fingered hand over his face. His moment of panic rushes to the surface, his hands not quick enough to pry off the ligament as numbing pain rips across his flesh in desperate torrents.

Every nerve, every piece of him left untouched by the armored effects of his Arcane blood, roars with shattering pain. Numbness jolts through him, a twitch vibrating in his jaw and shoulder blades. He glances quickly towards Killua, wondering if the mage is alright—

“Arcanes are all the same.”

Gon holds back a screech, the brunt of the other’s boot crashing against his back and holding him in place. He holds back a groan, hands fiercely grabbing into the earth beneath him. He wishes he could activate his abilities on will, rather than rely on his emotions to control them. His own temperament is too cold, too distant as his mind focuses on nothing but _Killua, Killua, Killua_ —

It takes one second, one glimpse for Gon to fully absorb the image in front of him.

Killua is as still as a statue, his lips partially opened with not one word or twitch indicating he is aware of where he is. His eyes—glaring gems that Gon finds to be so beautiful and hypnotic—are flashing as white as burning stars. His entire posture is loose and frazzled, as if deemed unconscious and somehow still bidden to stand. Locks of silver-pale hair are lifting against gravity, the slightest traces of blue coursing visually in his veins.

“You seem to be assuming I have done this to my brother,” says Illumi, far too conversationally for Gon’s liking. “Though, it appears that he’s been taken to another place. I cannot touch him when he is in this state. Perhaps you’ve already experienced this.” He clicks his tongue, humming lowly to himself. “It would be no use to leave you alive at this point and to expect Kil to be rid of you when he’s lost himself to this… odd charade of affection.”

Gon bristles, his face shoved into the dirt yet his voice carving angry curses beneath him. He needs to regain his strength, to force his bones to accommodate the consistent roaring in his head that demands for Illumi to be tossed aside as easily as a feather.

Then, Illumi’s gone, a silhouette vanishing into the night.

Gon blinks, barely mustering the strength to turn his head as a massive talon cages him, hooked right next to his cheekbone. He goes completely still, his heart hammering so fast he wonders if he can garner an internal bruise.

The moonbeam hawk looms over him, a streak of blinding silver-and-black emitting the strength and girth of a mountain.

She screeches, a distorted, shattering echo lost in the night. Gon dares to lift his head.

Illumi has taken flight into the air, hovering with his cape swirling around him and coasting beneath his feet in wisps of faded black. His expression is unreadable from how distant he is, though Gon wonders if he’s about to leave anytime soon, even with a potentially dangerous moonbeam hawk separating him from the courier and the mage.

Gon swallows, and hisses as another bone pops. His muscle strains in his left shoulder, his already limp right leg dragging alongside him.

Blood drops from his clenched teeth and falls onto the grass, speckling the green blades scarlet.

“K-Killua, I’m here!” he calls, his throat dry as chalk.

He spits, froth bubbling over his lips. The hawk’s talon shortens around his body, as if protecting him, as the feathers ruffle and flare out like an alarm signal.

He wonders if Illumi is still hovering, watching and waiting, like a detached ray of darkness intent on following their every move.

Gon wills himself to move, using every ounce of determination to push aside the trembling pain scouring down his sides and threatening to tear a scream from his lungs. He slides out from between the talons, sparing one strained glance at Illumi before moving to Killua’s side.

He stops, panting.

His brow furrows. His hands twitch, itching to touch Killua’s face, to garner some sort of reaction from him that would indicate he was conscious. Yet, he can see the flurry of sparks drifting subtly over Killua’s frame, his hair ruffled in the invisible wind currents and slowing in time.

“Killua…” Gon tilts his head. “Where are you right now?”

He tenses, feeling the heavy presence of the moonbeam hawk shift. He turns, and watches as the giant, beautiful creature leans forward with a bobbing head, eyes viciously cocked and focusing on the one living threat in the area.

The circle encompassing Killua’s form and emitting blue energy remains tactile. Flexible.

They don’t have much time.

_It’s now or never._

Gon intakes a sharp breath, and steps past the glyph.

He expects pain.

Though, the sensations that instantly flash through his mind and wash over his body in a tidal wave is what Gon had imagined a cloud to feel like brushed beneath his hands.

He inches away from Killua’s blinding white eyes, hesitating at first as the magic bounces and pulses among them in tiny bursts. He breathes shallowly, straining a small smile as he wraps an arm around Killua’s waist, unsure, yet steady.

He needs to time this perfectly. Even while injured, the risk is great.

_“What, you’re going to lose your nerve now? In the middle of battle?”_

Ging’s voice careens inside Gon, taunting him. Baiting him. He faces the wearer of the voice head-on with a broad, dangerous smirk lacing his lips.

_No, Ging._

He won’t lose this easily.

The hawk screeches, talons scraping harshly into the earth, as if preparing for flight once more. Gon nods to himself, wondering if the mother bird can sense him, and silently thanks his apparent luck in finding some connection with the moonbeam hawk.

“It’s futile for you to keep fleeing, Arcane.”

Gon grits his teeth, latching himself onto the bird’s leg and biting back each whimper and groan that threatens to escape him. He refuses to allow any form of weakness to become apparent past the bruises, shattered bones and aching muscles.

The hawk reaches back, lowering her head and nudging him upwards. Gon blinks, squeaking as he holds Killua closer to him and is promptly flopped onto the creature’s back.

Illumi backs off in the air, his cloak full unfurling in a wide expanse of deep purple and black silks. He watches them, searching the hawk’s form with unreadable features.

Sweat glistens on Gon’s temples. He tenderly leans Killua down, keeping his arm firmly wrapped around Killua’s waist. The feel of the mage’s breathing, frozen body pressed to his side is familiar and comforting, yet he would have to be more patient to see Killua’s mind return.

He locks eyes with Illumi one last time, his glare fiery and hot and blistering. He growls low into the dark, hoping that each expression makes some mark on the mind of the warlock.

His free hand, one of few ligaments with full strength, burrows deep into the back of the moonbeam hawk. He braces himself, clutching Killua so tightly to him that one would think he was attempting to fuse their bodies together. He whispers a low, open command, grinning despite himself.

The moment those massive wings spread out beside him, his heart races once more.

* * *

 

 

* * *

 Killua’s eyes snap open so quickly that it startles Gon. He glares up, panting, feeling as if he’s fallen directly from the sky. His hands are warm, one encased in the courier’s calloused grip as Gon watches him, blinking and studying him quietly. He musters a weak smile, blood staining his teeth and dressing his swollen lips—

“What the hell…”

Killua shudders, grimacing at the aches flourishing in a dreaded wave in his body. He stares up at the moving clouds, stars splashing the deep blue expanse like freckles on skin.

He swallows back the bile rising in his throat, the panic that surged through his bones and took vicious command of his senses.

“I’m so glad you’re awake, Killua!” Gon chirps, as if he’s _not_ sporting the nastiest array of bruises around his jaw and forehead and barely managing to keep his smile in a curve. “We’re flying! Isn’t this great? I was worried you would be asleep the whole journey, but we have a bit before we get there.”

_No, wait, Gon, slow down, what, we’re flying—_

Killua instantly jolts upwards, his heart dashing like a mad horse. Gon’s intense smile and gaze on him makes him shiver. He turns his head and forces away the blush from his cheeks. He glances down at his trembling hands, momentarily wondering if the dream—if the visions, if _Alluka_ —

He’d learned too much.

“Killua?”

The mage clicks his tongue, struggling to take in the sight of the valleys sweeping below them, the bed of silver-tipped feathers supporting both of their bodies on a slender back, and the steady clapping of large wings…

He pushes aside every moment of panic, and stares straight into Gon’s eyes. The courier reels back, his brow furrowed in suspicion and an infuriating kindness that makes Killua’s stomach flip and causes a nauseating storm to develop in his mind.

“Killua…” Gon’s hand reaches up, his warm palm resting on Killua’s cheek. The mage flinches at first, unsure of the sudden tenderness. Then, his lashes flutter, perplexed as Gon brushes one thumb over his cheekbone. “You’re crying,” he finishes in a whisper.

His eyes beam in gold and amber, instilled with fire and concern.

Killua blinks, touching his own face and frowning at the water dressing his fingertips.

He pushes back the growing lump in his throat, his nose scrunching up to prevent the increased pressure in his jaw. He can’t cry now, not even with these revelations spurring in his gut, this impending dread that consumes him and taunts him like a building hurricane.

“Gon,” he says, pausing to allow his breath to regain some level of normalcy. “I…”

He turns and admonishes Gon once more, hoping that the courier returns his look and _understands._

“There’s…” Killua closes his eyes, breathes, and opens them once more. “There’s something I need to tell you. About my magic—about _me_.”

Gon’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline, though there’s hardly any skepticism lining his lips. Instead, he hunches forward, focused entirely on Killua with so much intensity that the mage feels cornered by a prowling lion.

_It’s okay._

Killua inwardly rolls his eyes.

_This is Gon we’re talking about. Just tell him what you saw._

He must.

His heart lurches. His lungs shrivel up into dust.

He wonders, once these words— _the truths, the secrets he never knew he had_ —leave the confines of his mind and drift into the open, if he’ll ever be able to forgive the person he’s meant to be.


	14. The Doorway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, gosh.
> 
> I can't believe this story is coming to a close, soon... 
> 
> Thank you so much, everyone, for sticking to this story that is so near and dear to my heart. Every comment, kudos, bookmark, all of it, means the absolute world and more. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I'm so humbled, and honored, and happy to have written this story up to this point, and to be able to share it with such a wonderful community of people who love Hunter x Hunter so much. 
> 
> Thank you for giving this story a chance. 
> 
> And a special thank you as always to my dear friend, Shawn (killushawn on Tumblr and Shawnathin93 on Archive) who beta'd this with his usual attention to detail and patience. This chapter is long, so... he deserves a thousand pats on the back just for that. :P
> 
> Alright. Well, that's enough dawdling. I hope you all enjoy the fourteenth chapter!

“A girl?” Gon echoes, and perhaps, Killua should have expected him to sound more disbelieving than he currently is. 

The courier adjusts his seat on the moonbeam hawk, his profile washed in starlight, as he fixates a stare onto Killua that leaps between one bridge of understanding to another. His nose scrunches up, brow pinching together as he draws to a conclusion.

“Oh! So, wait… I think I understand, Killua! So you were in this, kind of dimension, right? I’ve heard of those, from stories about other mages. And you spoke to a girl who lived there? That’s amazing! I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to someone who’s actually been in one of those dimensions, half there and half not.” He blinks, his jaw dropping in collective awe. “Not even an Arcane would be able to have that sort of experience. Not from what Kurapika told me.”

Killua stares ahead, past the bobbing head of the hawk and towards the sweeping valleys below. Trees lean up towards them like outstretched claws, branches whipping in the winds. His cheeks are rosy and dry, lips chapped and tongue rough like sandpaper. His hands explode into sweat with each second that passes, his mind drifting back towards what he’d witnessed, to the visions granted to him by Alluka’s welcome touch—

“Killua?”

Killua turns away from Gon’s inquiring look. He’d grown accustomed to the aching twists in his stomach and lungs whenever he felt the courier’s stare linger on him, but now, those eyes held a much heavier weight.

He’s not sure if he’ll be able to properly level stares with Gon while riding on the back of the moonbeam hawk, his thoughts drifting between one reality and another.

Alluka’s— _Nanika’s_ —touch lingers like a bloom of heat around his jaw.

He traces his fingers on the underside, his shoulders shaking beneath the pressure. He nearly starts when the courier’s grip finds him, fingers shielding over the blue cloth of his shirt. His spine straightens, his mind momentarily opening as he reads the courier’s curious, yet pensive, glare.

“It’ll be easier if I just tell you what I saw. What she helped me see.” Killua wipes sweat from his brow. “There’s so much more to… this, I guess, than I thought. And—I don’t know. Gon, it’s, none of it is going to make you even want to stay here. With me.”

His throat clenches up. He avoids Gon’s eyes, even as the courier’s grip on his shoulder quickly tightens; reprimanding him, _reassuring_ him.

He shrugs off the gesture and rolls his eyes, drinking in a gust of ash-dry air, wondering why the romantic presence of nightfall hasn’t yet changed the stirrings in his heart and stomach.

"You know, my Aunt Mito used to go on hunts with me.”

Killua blinks at the courier, one eyebrow risen.

“What does that have to do with anything?” He says, cautiously following each tinted smile stretching across Gon’s face.

The courier only chuckles, turning forward, his hand grazing the ruffled feathers of the hawk’s back. Killua grinds his teeth, lips pursed as Gon’s stare finds the ridges of the mountains they pass and the crackling thunder in the distance.

“She used to tell me that moonbeam hawks were on the same level with spirits and gods. Angels descended from stars we can’t see.”

Gon leans back, his broad chest lessening with each short breath that leaves him. The wind tousles through his raven hair, matching the glowing smile and mirthful sparkle in his eyes.

Killua’s hands are gripping his ankles like a lifeline. He coughs into his fist, and turns away with a heated blush on his cheeks when Gon attempts to lock their gazes together. He knows that the courier is trying to lead him to a better state of mind, to a place where they can exchange words regally as if battling through wits and silver words alone.

He traces over the fresh bruises and cuts on Gon’s flesh, each wound failing to even mar the presence of his smiles and occasional bouts of laughter. He braces the power of the sun and more, in a way that Killua has never believed possible.

He never would have imagined becoming one with his memories through the touch of a girl he wished he never forgot, and this realization hardly matches his disbelief at flying on the back of a moonbeam hawk with a former enemy.

He can hardly breathe or contain the confusion of being beside someone like Gon— _a warrior carved from unspoken scars and weathered lines shadowing each passing grin and outstretched hand_ —a painting too blessed, too strong and stable to be in the presence of someone as destructive and dangerous as a Zaoldyk mage.

“So,” Gon continues, snapping Killua out of his mumbling, “I learned how to notch an arrow, skin boars, and even track animals in the woods because of Mito. She was amazing.” He lies back on the bed of feathers beneath them, a wistful, solemn sigh slipping into the open. “But, she always told me that, when we were prowling after birds in the fields, that the key to getting over the shock of downing a bird, is to aim and shoot. No hesitation. Like ripping off a bandage.”

Killua hums in thought, then scoffs as he comes to a certain conclusion. He smiles wryly.

“Is this you actually trying to be some wise soothsayer or something? Quoting old stories like a well-seasoned traveler?” He grins and clears his throat, deepening his voice into an exaggerated baritone that reminds him of the courier’s. “ _Killua, I know that I make zero logical sense and like to call you pretty all the time, but look, I got us a brand new moonbeam hawk!”_

Killua finishes with a snort, his own chuckles shaking his body. He turns to Gon, expecting the courier to be far less pleased than he currently seems. Gon has already straightened back out, his hands splayed behind him and his broad smile close-lipped.

He’s biting the inside of his cheek, his chest rumbling with a hearty laugh.

Killua rolls his eyes. “What’s so funny _now_?”

Gon shakes his head, and crosses his legs. His amused smile lessens into a grin, one so fond and distracted it causes Killua’s heart to stutter inside his ribcage.

“You’re adorable,” he says, as easily as sipping water from a glass.

Heat crawls up Killua’s neck, relentless and driven. He swallows thickly and interweaves his fingers, hoping that his magic is still subdued enough to prevent sparks from bursting from his skin and bones. He would rather restrain his muscles and keep his sprouting embarrassment under control before unintentionally electrocuting the bird.

“Shut up, Courier,” he mumbles.

Gon’s laugh is gentle and sweeping, always changing. Always comforting.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Killua shifts in his seat, fingers tentatively searching through the black and silver feathers. He hopes that his heart is only loud enough for him to hear, with how deafening it becomes in its rhythmic crashing within the confines of his chest.

“I just know it’s easier for you.” Gon scratches his cheek. “To, you know. Talk.” He leans his head back and stares up at the stars, a pout curling his lips.

Killua blinks at the gesture, and focuses on the particular dimple that forms in the courier’s right cheek.

“Hm. Well, a story for a story, right? It wouldn’t be fair for you to tell me all that happened if I didn’t start it. I told you about something that mattered to me from my past, so…” He laughs. “I don’t know. It seems to be working, though, since you’re starting to laugh again.”

Killua’s eyebrows raise to his hairline. He rubs the back of his neck, the unsureness he’d struggled to ignore crawling up the base of his spine and spreading into his muscles.

Silence envelops them both.

The wind grows harsher, colder, carrying the promise of an oncoming winter to follow the next of many season and moon cycles. The hawk’s wings clap like thunder, stretching out like planes of the moon and carving through the wind like swords.

It’s a sound Killua will always remember, ingrained into his fondest dreams when he has the opportunity to sleep without dreaming of Illumi’s soulless black eyes. 

“You’re insane,” he says, a whisper carrying the weight of lightning.

Gon only smirks.

His cloak billows around him, green waves flaring in a sea of true Arcane confidence and recklessness.

Night swallows up the outlines of the mountains and villages scattered below them in streams of bricked buildings, straw encampments and travelers from far and wide they will never be able to meet. Even now, the mage envisions countless people pledged under the weight of King Meruem, a threat Killua had never once believed to be a growing thorn in an otherwise tempered rosebush.

Yet, he knows that Gon views it as more than a simple issue. He knows the Arcane wishes death and destruction on the Chimera Ants who’d stolen the kingdom several years before. And even still, Gon’s expectations of him quite possibly far exceeded that—what would Gon expect from him as soon as they reached their destination?

Would he even continue to trust him after he told him what he saw the moment Nanika opened his mind?

He stiffens, another onslaught of heat and gentleness swarming his insides as he recognizes the caressing of Gon’s fingers over his knuckles. He turns, and looks at the courier, who stares so deeply into his eyes that he forgets the original impulse to rip his hand away and pretend that he can ignore him.

"You know we’re not enemies anymore, right, Killua?” Gon says.

Killua hesitates, his hand shifting beneath Gon’s caging hand. His eyes flutter when the courier’s hand lifts, cradling the underside of his cheek. A thumb brushes along his jaw, radiating heat and warmth still unfamiliar to him, yet instantly causing Killua to struggle between his own thoughts and Gon’s stern, focused expression.

“Don’t—,” Killua snatches Gon’s hand. Gon blinks, yet the mage tightens his grip around the other male’s wrist and lowers it. His hand trembles beneath his own vice, his teeth viciously scouring into his bottom lip. “Don’t… _say_ things like that, when you can’t know for sure.” He closes his eyes, opens them, and turns to admonish Gon with a look carved from stones and ice. “I’m going to trust you with this, and you can’t… just, let me explain, from beginning to end. And then, we can talk about whatever. But, this is important, Gon. Not just for me, but for—but for _you_ and whatever else _you_ have planned for… _this_.”

He gestures to the world rushing by them—a blur of deep shades and muted sounds.

Gon scoots closer to Killua, but before Killua can snap at him for doing so, he calmly takes his hands back and folds them in his lap. He tilts his head, watching him, brow furrowed and nose wrinkling in pondering. 

He dips his head, a confirming nod that pushes Killua to continue.

_He’s letting me do this._

Killua swallows the bile trickling down his throat. It soars in his veins like venom, frigid and distracting. He hears uncertain whispers in the back of his mind, threatening to breach his concentration and prevent him from reaching into those dark cavernous depths and pull out the answers he needs to share.

“Alluka refers to me as her brother, but…” Killua pauses. “She’s not. Not at all. I didn’t know this, but, from what I saw, and from what she let me see, Alluka and Nanika revealed something crazy. I didn’t expect it, and…” He shakes his head. “It shouldn’t have been surprising, I guess, to realize that she wasn’t my sister, but also not… completely human, either.”

Gon remains silent, his presence a mountain of fortitude and understanding.

“She sent me back to… the time I first knew her, and when I was there I saw my brother, Illumi, and my grandfather.” He rubs his chin. “They were talking. About me. About her. Watching us, in the dark, and even though I couldn’t see, Alluka— _Nanika_ could.”

For once, Killua is thankful that he has a silent void to fill, as he spills out his truths into the gaping night surrounding them.

* * *

 

 

* * *

 The moment Nanika’s soothing voice breaches the barrier of his mind, Killua sees the world in color.

The great expanse of white stone and grass fade into the background, his body completely detaching from his wandering soul and gaping thoughts.

He swallows his breath, no sound leaving him, as he braces himself in a void where he can hardly feel his own hands or understand the blood surely roaring in his ears. He feels his adrenaline, recognizes the sheer force of it, and allows the wave to pull him into another place.

A heavy weight slams into his back. It reverberates through his skeleton, his spine and muscles retracting and releasing at once. He blinks, and draws in the appearance of a location he’s sure he’s known once in another time.

_Where did you send me, Nanika?_

The walls and ceiling are completely encased in stone. Chains are linked to the bricks and wooden planks, shackles dangling like serpents on the dusted earth. His bare feet slide over, trickling and transparent, as if he’s slipped on the skin of a ghost.

He glances at his hands, flexing his fingers to differentiate the fluctuating shades of the place he’s been sent to, and his current form growing luminescent beneath the lit candles surrounding him.

_A dungeon._

He follows the familiar clanging of a door— _heavy, sturdy, cracked through with age and embroidered with iron and copper_ —as it opens and swings shut. Quiet shoes scuffle over the floors, trailing after two silhouettes he instantly recognizes even before they turn the corner.

Before he can draw in the appearance of the two intruders, Killua’s eyes land on a particular vision he hadn’t noticed until now.

“What…?” He asks aloud, his voice bouncing off in a void echo. He gulps, watching as he draws in the vision before him, digesting the appearance of the dungeon-like surroundings, the empty atmosphere and the massive, gaping hole bored into the opposite wall.

Though, it’s not a hole at all, he realizes, as he steps closer to observe it. The outer rim of the hole is rippling with tangible cracks and splinters, as white as bone and thrashing in the air like tendrils of lightning. It shivers as if caught in a winter storm, the ovular circle widening and growing larger by the second—a vision that renders Killua breathless the longer he stares.

 _A portal_ , he concludes. _But why? It looks…_

He’s seen this before. He _must_ have.

There couldn’t be an explanation for Alluka even knowing where or how this vision could exist if he hadn’t been in the vicinity first. These are his memories and hers interwoven, he presumes, so it would make hardly any sense for the warp-like gate to even be open in this area.

“Ah, so he’s back in there, it seems.”

Killua stiffens and steps backward on instinct. His translucent feet drift over the floors, though the room feels cold. His pulse races, a wintry chill sprawling up his spine. Craning his neck, he watches as the two silhouettes curve around the corner, the same voice suddenly dripping into the open air like frozen poison.

“It would seem that he’s figured out a way to visit her on his own.”

Killua’s frown deepens.

 _Grandpa_ , he wants to say. Though, he wonders if he says the name of the intruder aloud, if his voice will somehow reach his grandfather and shatter his hidden presence.

His memories of his grandfather trickle in his conscious like sand in an hourglass. 

Scattered memories of looking up in admiration towards the older man, always hunched over and scouring his books with a pointed furrow in his brow.

Killua had never forgotten the significant gaunt to his grandfather’s features, his carefully woven expressions drifting between complacent and mild humor, always indecipherable in their intentions.

He remembered how the great Zeno Zaoldyk walked and looked each morning and night—robes sweeping around bony ankles, muscles slick and constantly coiled beneath the magical tattoos emblazoned on his flesh; jagged lines for cheekbones, weathered porcelain skin, irises brimming with ice, venom and fire.

He was the type of person to stride into a room and command attention to himself with the subtlety of a lion and strength of a dragon. His magic was natural-born, stemming back through centuries of purity, untouched by the bane of normal or Arcane humanity.

_Grandpa never watched me train. Not once._

But he knows that Nanika would never be able to see Zeno Zaoldyk unless Killua was in the same vicinity as her. He suspects he’s somehow spotted through the portal on the wall, apparently cast by forces not from his grandfather’s own hand. Watching Zeno stand in front of the portal and regard it with abrupt silence strikes Killua as familiar and unwarranted.

Killua straightens, watching as the second silhouette appeared, and he resists the urge to clench his jaw and harden his eyes into a glare at the woman taking her place at Zeno’s side.

Kikyou Zaoldyk is unchanged in this vision from his earliest memories of her. A thin waif of a woman, she stands with fidgeting hands, lacerated skin wrapped in layers of white bandages. Her rapidly blinking, bright red eyes—swollen from tufts of burning ash and fire from many years’ prior—acknowledging the more powerful mage beside her. Her long black hair is swept up in a braided crown atop her head, lips spread into a crooked, shaking smile.

Killua’s fingers burrow into his palms.

His tongue feels heavy, his attention switching from the portal and his grandfather to the willowy woman taking her stance beside him. Her ruffled sleeves and wide hoop skirt are layered over in the signature Zaoldyk colors—dark blues, light and dark lavenders and grays, swirled into a pattern that hovers over her skin like a silhouetted ocean.

Bile rises in Killua’s throat, stark visions of his hand crackling with sparks and reaching out towards her gaping mouth—

He exhales.

_Calm down. Listen to them._

“I thought you said that he would be with his brother today?” Kikyou says, her hands weaving together. Gemstones glisten on her gloved fingers.

Zeno tilts his head back, facing the portal directly with barely a nod towards Kikyou.

“What Illumi chooses to do with Killua is up to him. I simply observe when I have the opportunity.” He gestures vaguely to the portal on the wall. “And it seems Killua has taken some of his own initiative to enter this Door.”

Kikyou steps away from him, aghast.

“Z-Zeno! He is—he is so _young_! Of course, he… knew what to do exactly when he tried to leave. But, he shouldn’t be able to open any Doorways. Not now, at least.”

“You predicted yourself, Kikyou, that he was prodigious with his talents. I would assume that allowing him to interact with other entities this young will be good for him. A warlock like Illumi would know if this were truly a danger to his training and growth.”

Killua holds back an instinctive smile, a low, dark chuckle emitting between his lips. Warmth bubbles in his chest.

“But would you care to be more—perhaps, _inconspicuous_?” She trembles like a doll teetering on the edge of a shelf, her ruffled clothing bristling in response to her rising emotions. “Others will surely be wondering what the Zaoldyk heir would look like. We can’t have him in public acting out these missions that his father wishes for him to take, not when he can—”

“It seems he’s been strong enough to move on his lonesome for quite some time, if he is indeed the one responsible for opening this Door.” Zeno tilts his head. “It’s a bit amateurish, however. The rimmed border crackles a bit too much. It is barely hanging in this open air as we speak.”

“That doesn’t matter, Zeno!” Kikyou snaps, immediately recoiling and flipping out a paper fan in front of her face. She waves the device, hastily. Forced. “He’s become such a beautiful mage already, killing with the force of angry storms!” She contains her excitement with exaggerated flickers of her hand, her smiles barely present through slipping bandages and gnashing teeth.

Killua curls his tongue, pondering.

_So this is a Door. A Doorway. Not just a portal…?_

The words taste forbidden, unearthed from a deep chasm he hasn’t reached into for years.

His entire body shivers, as if dunked into ice-cold water.

His vision dissipates, blurring past the figures of his mother and grandfather and into the white world beyond. Rocks and grass the shade of rolled paper crinkle in the corners like tapestries, and something strange and ethereal grabs ahold of Killua before he can react. He stiffens, jolts, as the invisible force tugs him forward, violently, into the Door.

He barely registers the glint of his grandfather turning his head, those narrow gems for eyes tracing him with skepticism, with _knowing_.

_Does he see me?_

The paralyzing thought vanishes in an instant.

Stiff with whiplash, the mage stalls in the open air, breathing into an oxygenless atmosphere. He struggles to maintain his caution, knowing that Nanika is somehow, someway, levitating and pulling him about like a master puppeteer.

_Can you hear me, Nanika? Alluka?_

His throat dries, skin humming with trickles of faint static. He listens to the bumbling under his translucent skin, trailing over the mist lifting from his body and surrounding him in tinted waves.

_Nanika…?_

He rolls his eyes, and adjusts his limbs in the ethereal grip on his body.

His body hovers over the grass, toes dancing along the ground that he knows will be teeming with blades of grass and flowers in the future. He stares around him at the endless white void, no artificial sky, mountain, or tree in sight.

His mouth slacks, confusion and realization thrumming against his temples as he draws in the scenery with bated breaths.

He absorbs his surroundings carefully, as if afraid to miss a single detail.

Then, his gaze rests on two small children standing in the middle of the void. A small girl with a familiar white mask for a face and twin black holes for eyes— _Nanika_ , Killua deduces quickly—tugs on the sleeve of the boy beside her. He’s vulnerably small, possibly no older than eight years old, with the same ivory skin and stormy blue eyes Killua has seen in his own reflection.

He blinks.

_So this..._

He hadn’t considered how strange it would be, to witness himself from so many years ago, in a time that he was kept from remembering by magic he’d never cast.

_This was where it began. That place. These two white worlds are the same._

He imagines how many years it would take for Alluka to sculpt this very world from her own mind and hands. Was she truly that powerful? Was she able to bring vivid images to life on her lonesome?

From what he knows about her now, and what he believes he had known about her then, she seems to be a person with an inner vision that spans for endless miles.

He watches Alluka and the younger version of himself talk and clap their hands together. They smile, giggle, laugh, and remain in each other’s presence with the moments that tick by. Killua holds his breath, turning back to glance at the Door, where he knows his mother and grandfather are watching.

But, from his vantage point on his side of the dimension, he can no longer see them.

“What does a mountain look like?”

Killua turns, and watches as Alluka sits on the blank earth with her legs crossed. Her lips are curled into a pout, her large blue eyes unblinking and focused on the boy who draws various shapes in the air.

He scratches his head, frustration evident in his motions.

Killua slowly lowers himself to the ground, breathing to calm his rising nerves. His pulse races with each second, as if his soul is aware of his presence in looking too far back in time, to a place where he had not been allowed to witness before.

Time passes in a canvas of memories and voices, all stemming from the two children—so familiar, yet strangers in this time and place—conversing and playing in the middle of this vast white world with little regard to the dangers surrounding them.

His younger self seems incredibly attached to Alluka, his fingers intertwining with hers in nearly every game they play. She smiles and laughs, her features occasionally switching with Nanika’s, the tone ever so slightly changing when the shift occurs.

The subtle smile that curls the corners of the younger Killua’s mouth looks alien.

Killua’s fists clench. It feels criminal, to not remember a person who brought such strange joy into his life that he’d never believed existed.

_Nanika—Alluka, this place… is it the same one?_

He doesn’t wait for a response. His answer slams into him like a battering ram, knocking the wind straight out of his lungs as he watches his younger self and Alluka crouch over the stark, paper-white ground.

Slowly, something twists and shifts in the atmosphere. A chilling sensation crawls on Killua’s translucent skin. He watches Alluka’s hand carefully follow an invisible motion in the air, her features changing into the familiar white mask with black eyes. As her fingers draw tentative circles and rivulets in the world, a fine _crack_ splinters through the dimension and makes itself known.

A thin tendril, barely broader than a toothpick, bursts from the earth and follows Alluka’s hand into a careful, congruent pattern of morphing circles and lines. It dances in her levitating grasp like a thread, though her palms only rotate around the line as it takes vivid shape, created from nothing at the cost of nothing.

Killua’s heart flutters.

Gently, the younger Killua guides Alluka’s hands as she concentrates, her cropped hair lifting in spades, as if carried by an invisible wind. Sparks of silver-tinted magic dances along her tiny arms. He whispers to her, firm yet soothing, and the line takes further shape, moving on a pattern that only the two of them understand.

Killua’s mouth opens in recognition.

Alluka sits back and smiles, her giggle fluctuating between her and Nanika’s echoing voices. The younger Killua smiles as well, tenderly patting her head and gesturing towards the flower sprouting from the earth, leaves and petals still as driftwood like hand-drawn lines.

It’s the first of many forms meant to take life in this world.

Killua follows them, watching in uncomfortable quietness, as his younger self and Alluka travel and shift between carving lines of mountains into the distance and allowing trees to sprout around blossoms. Grass blades and weeds drift and tangle over the earth, certain patterns and shapes following suit to eventually develop into just a shy imitation of what Killua had seen before Nanika had sent him here.

_We... built this place. Together. Just the two of us._

He swallows. He knows there is an underlying truth to his conclusion, like a disembodied echo traveling in a canyon.

_Is that what you’re trying to tell me, Nanika?_

He shakes his head, his expectations of hearing her reply fizzling into nothing. He watches as another mountain takes shape in the distance, his younger self ruffling Alluka’s longer hair and murmuring something low and gentle into her ear.

His chest coils with heat and bitterness, jaw tight with frustration. The disbelief that sings under his skin ignites a darker pettiness in his mind and heart, riding on the wave of these cold memories preserved in a place that had been stolen from his own consciousness.

Then, a dark, vicious splinter tears into his vision. Numbing pain shoots through Killua’s skull, prompting his silent screams to lodge against his teeth. He fights against the pain, his knuckles blanching in their translucent grip, as if searching for a vice to hold.

The growing grass plains, the flowers, the sprouting trees, bushes and towering mountains dissipate into blackness. Killua holds his breath, conscious of the sudden weight swallowing him whole and tossing away the sight of his younger self and Alluka, exchanging secrets and curling their lips into phantom smiles. 

His next vision is draped in cold.

His heart stutters.

_Thump._

He needs to breathe.

_Thump. Thump._

He opens his mouth, and startles at the lack of sound. He claws at nothing but darkness, and winces as the freezing sensations crawling over his body vanish.

The white earth of the world beyond the Door is soon replaced with a smoother, ruffled surface.

Killua’s hands stumble, palms pressing flat to a wide expanse of intertwined threads and ruffled silks. He squints into the floors, confused at the sudden ability to touch and feel the ground beneath him, while he was a spectral in the white world.

He recognizes this carpet.

“You are quite quick to disobey, Kil.”

Killua stiffens, his shoulders forcibly hunched and face slammed into the carpet. He gasps out, saliva and blood swelling into the silks and ruffles. He hears wind battering against an open window, the familiar rustling of a cloak and the threatening lash of a whip cracking against the air. He winces, and glances over the trembling of his own body, and the shackles clasped around his wrists.

This has happened before. 

_Nanika—_

“That _thing_ ,” the voice whispers, another threatening slash of the whip snapping behind Killua’s ears, “is not permitted to be in contact with you from now on. It is a vile creature, meant to remain in its own world. Though, I seem to be the only one skeptical about your willingness to communicate with that demonic entity.”

Unbridled rage boils in Killua’s stomach.

_Alluka. Nanika. He’s talking about them—_

He tries to turn his head, but to no avail, even as every muscle screams for him to do so. His body feels different, and the scars he’s grown accustomed to glimpsing over on his wrists and knuckles have vanished from his skin.

He stares ahead, unblinking, towards the tapestry of a warlock on the opposite wall. Burning deep blues and violets clash together in patterns over the silken drapes and portraits hung inside the room, framed only by the large window open to the outside world.

_This is Illumi’s room._

The whip smacks against his back. Flesh tears open, and the earsplitting scream that splits Killua’s mind in half is heard only to him. His physical body—this temporary vessel from years before, in a stance much weaker, in a person worth less than an insect on the road—quakes and braces against the impact.

An explosion of a copper breaks from his tongue and slips between his teeth.

“Zeno believes there to be something more to that thing you associate with. That dimension is not meant to be _touched_. Entities like that one become attached to emotional vessels. Zaoldyks do not need spirits or foolish demons for stronger magic.”

_I didn’t see her for that. I never needed her for magic! You’re wrong!_

Killua shouts in the confines of his skull, bracing the pain slammed into his bones and throttling his organs. The whip snaps between his shoulder blades, a stark numbness and blistering heat scorching him from the inside-out. With each second that passes, he spits droplets of blood onto the carpet.

It lasts far too long for his mind to become coherent. The occasional static of his magic returns to his fingers, though the sensations are far weaker—from a time when he was too young to harness what had been instilled into his teachings—and shriveling almost instantly as soon as they appear.

He wants to scream for himself to fight, to go against these restraints and look his brother in the eye and tell him to drop on his knees in front of Alluka himself. To hear those venomous words, these accusations that ring with nothing but dishonesty, causes Killua’s insides to tumble and his teeth to grind.

The need to strike back enflames his body, prickling his skin and forcing him to focus on every detail within the room that will distract him from the searing pain being branded into his back.

He’s alone. 

Trapped in this vortex of memories he never knew he had. Alluka and Nanika have kept them sealed for so long, prepared for him, submerged behind invisible chains and locks e had never bothered attempting to open.

His body turns numb, tears forcefully pressed back. His jaw wobbles.

He needs to see everything. He needs to understand the weight of Illumi’s words, of creating a new world out of nothing with Alluka. A girl from another dimension who referred to him as her brother, as someone whom she clearly cherished more than herself.

How long had she been trapped in that white world, sprouting flowers from nothing and casting currents of wind into air that tasted like nothing?

“You will not be seeing that _thing_ again, Kil.”

_You won’t stop me._

Killua holds back his screams, his angry pleas and tears.

_In that way, you’ve already lost._

The last crack of the whip on his back snaps him into another reality.

He gasps, his back slamming into tough, burnt soil. Coals and clusters of embers gather at his toes, the overwhelming stench of smoke flooding his nostrils. The incessant ringing pounding in his eardrums recede, something warm and wet gathering beneath his body and soaking through what’s left of his clothes.

He squints, disoriented, through the hazy blackness around him and the expanse of an otherwise clear sky. No stars or moon can be seen from where he is, lost in a fray that he instantly remembers as well as forgets.

_Wait—no—why did you—_

He bolts upwards in panic, glancing around him at the utter chaos engulfing this new place, this location void of the fine threads and Zaoldyk tapestries of his family.

He stands, and forces every hesitant piece of him to face what’s to come.

He knows this place far too well.

A place that burns in his nightmares and holds him in an electric cage morphed into solid bone. He remembers the desperate screams of men, women, children, warriors and Chimera Ants alike, fleeing their humble homes made of iron and brick.

Those forces were meant to be stable, to block out destructive means that threatened their lives and the ones of those they loved.

He knows he is a ghostly form once more in this world. He knows, only because the vacant, frightened faces of people whose names he never bothered to attempt to know or remember, stare directly through him like light spilling through a window.

A woman rushes towards him, screaming deafeningly, tears spilling down her cheeks, eyes large and glassed over with unshed tears.

She knows she is about to die, and even as Killua braces himself, she stumbles and passes right through him, tripping and falling into the thrashed earth.

Her screams end abruptly, and he doesn’t have to turn on his heel to know how she’s gone.

Illumi’s familiar silhouette is a drifting shadow against the backdrop of nightfall. His long, narrow features and stilled frown are stuck into one expression like molded porcelain. His hair is much shorter, barely brushing his shoulders, tattoos emblazoned on his partially exposed shoulders and disappearing into his belled sleeves.

Killua grits his teeth, instantly recognizing the much smaller, weaker mage beside him. He resembles his younger self, with the familiar hair, skin and eyes, his electric magic traveling like dancing strings and ropes over his body.

His hand is extended, fingers trembling ever so slightly—the movement of a pianist lifting at the end of a song.

“Stop…” Killua shakes his head, grasping at his own hair.

He’s caught between begging Alluka to take him away from his vision and telling himself to somehow stop this massacre.

But this is a memory.

_I’m not back in time._

The columns of smoke expand around them. When he turns, he sees the screaming faces of innocent people, some already limp and lifeless on twisting paths of bloodstained cobbles. Chimney spires are shattered into splinters. Windows are fragmented, collapsing into the homes they were meant to protect.

The Ivory Gates extended beyond the humble settlement, leading to the twin spires of white marbled stone and granite that gave the area the name.

_Why did we do this?_

Killua shakes his head. His fists clench, thumbnails pressing crescent-shaped markings into his palms. He furiously rubs at his eyes, the rawness stinging more than the smoke that touches his spectral, yet somehow physical, form. He turns on his heel to admonish the forms of his younger self and older brother, yet pauses as the figure of the young mage steps confidently—mechanically—onto the stone pathways leading through the heart of the Ivory Gates.

He knows what’s coming.

He sees it in the gait of his younger self, in the way Illumi keeps his distance, watching like the raven of his darkest nightmares.

“No!” Killua screeches, his voice nothing but lost in this cold, distant place. “You fucking idiot! Stop! These people— _don’t_!”

He knows it’s useless, knows that each breath is wasted as he slumps forward and collapses onto the soil.

He needs to escape this, to alert Nanika that he’s seen enough of the truth, that he knows why she’s brought him here—

The younger version of himself— _the Zaoldyk once meant to make his family proudly stand in history once more—_ raises his hand, his back turned to Killua.

It’s as if he’s pulled into a sleepless dream, his mind following the movements of his younger self as his entire body becomes engulfed in a beguiling array of magic. The tendrils are bright blue and static, rippling in the air like serpents. They hiss and crackle like the tail-ends of a whip, and suddenly the sound becomes nothing but comparable to that sensational noise.

Killua turns still. The world rushes by him, clouded in scents and sights he wishes he could vanquish from his memory. He trembles with each bated breath, fixated onto the way his younger self’s hands move in controlled, stiff motions. He never says a word, never blinks at his victims as he draws the life from their eyes, thick whiplashes of lightning sparking from his palms and destroying whatever lies in his path.

_Why are you showing me this…?_

Killua grits his teeth.

_I already know what I did!_

Yet, Nanika never responds. Alluka never whispers in return.

The white marble of the Ivory Gates towers glisten with blood and scorch marks. Illumi glides through the burning settlement with his cloak wrapped around his body in wing-like shapes, feathers sprouting from his arms and racing down his spine. He disappears into the rising plumes of fire, ash and smoke.

He presses his hands over his ears, shaking.

_Get out of my head…_

A sudden jolt of soothing warmth zaps through his body. He recoils, straightening, eyes opening wide in astonishment. The world remains the same, the smells and sounds rushing together in a mess of white noise. He stills, as time seems to slow, and his thoughts focus on the way his younger self finally turns, his profile becoming all the more recognizable.

“What?” His whisper falls deaf on his own ears, a taste of air on his tongue.

As lightning and thunder stir in a violent swirl above them, his younger self fully embraces the oncoming forces of magic. It tumbles and aggressively envelops his small, lithe body, a rapid halo of dangerous energy sprawling around him in a torrential glyph.

He recognizes this glyph.

Then, his younger self turns and faces him directly.

Killua’s heart stalls.

His own face— _the adolescent features of a Zaoldyk mage twisted in blankness and washed clean of life_ —has been replaced by a familiar white mask with matching black holes for eyes. A smile that’s strangely lopsided, and an expression that never shifts from the placating calmness and childish innocence that should never be there.

_Nanika…? You…_

A blinding flash snaps into the air, shattering the deep reds and blacks of this death-trodden memory. The Ivory Gates crumble before his very eyes, hundreds of corpses sprawled across burnt grass and scarlet cobblestones.

Charred bodies drift and flail through his vision, drawing the shocked air from his lungs as his heart struggles to follow suit.

His hands quake with the memories of casting those threads of lightning.

“Nanika, _please_ ,” he begs, collapsing onto the ground he can’t truly touch.

He closes his eyes, whispering, begging, for this vision to cease entirely.

The sound of Gon’s voice is what lulls him out of his stupor.

* * *

 

 

* * *

Killua rakes one hand through his locks.

Sweat cakes his palms slathers over his cheeks. Red patches have bloomed on his pale skin from absentminded scratching and rubbing. He avoids Gon’s eyes, wondering if a gaze that smolders with an incredible surge of protectiveness and anger would be able to handle the truth spilling from between his lips.

“I don’t know how he did, but…” Killua exhales, jaw tight, “Illumi somehow knew that Nanika and Alluka amplified my magic. I didn’t know that she somehow took control that day, and I don’t know how she reached past that dimension, but…” He turns to Gon, refusing to truly look into the depths of his unwavering gaze.

He shifts, just slightly, at the subconscious clenching of the courier’s calloused hands around his, a vice grip of support and silent strength.

“I think it’s why I’ve been… weaker. I only remember the aftermath of what happened at the Ivory Gates, and I knew that I killed all those people and saw through my own eyes, but… Alluka. No, _Nanika_ somehow reached past the Doorway I opened. She became so much more than just a spirit from another world. I created a _world_ with her, Courier.”

His tongue swipes over his bottom lip. His own skin tastes dry as chalk.

“And—my grandfather. Did he somehow know? Could he somehow sense me? I didn’t go back in time. It was just, going through my memories.” He swallows. “I don’t understand the magic behind it. I know that Arcanes can reach into other dimensions indirectly and call forth their magic that way. Mages are meant to be born with those abilities, but…”

His brow furrows, rubbing his chin in thought.

“Maybe I wasn’t always like this.” Static crackles along his knuckles. He snorts, a wry grin catching the corners of his lips. “Maybe… it’s because of Alluka and Nanika that I can do _any_ of these things at all.”

Killua is only allowed a spare moment of silence before Gon exhales deeply beside him. He turns, blinking owlishly. The courier admonishes him with a fond curve to his smile, teeth glinting beneath the stars and eyes heavy with simultaneous energy and anger.

“So… Nanika was the one, who killed everyone at the Ivory Gates. Not you.”

Killua bristles. “It was _both_ of us, Courier.” He sighs. “It’s not that simple. I was consciously aware, but there was another presence. Shielding me. Protecting me.” He bites his lip. “Alluka and Nanika want to protect me as much as I want to protect them. I can’t explain it. It’s like I’ve known them for years and am feeling all of it attack me at once.”

Gon hums at this, resting his chin in his hand. He glances forward, the breeze rustling through his cloak.

“The point is… without her, I won’t be of much help to you, if you’re planning on using me as some weapon or tool in whatever regime you’re creating.” Killua shakes his head. “Without her, my powers aren’t truly there. I didn’t know this until I saw what she showed me. Somehow, I opened a Door to another plane of reality, and it’s not accessible with this one. But…”

Gon brightens, pointing towards the sky as if handling an epiphany.

Killua frowns, unimpressed.

“… Have something to say?” he grumbles.

Gon turns to him, his frown drawn in a thin line.

 _He’s serious_ , Killua reasons, straightening.

“Then—she’s real, right? You could access that place you talked about, right? So…” Gon dips his head. “Maybe you can find her in this reality, too. If she’s around, and able to talk to you at all, then it would make sense if she was in our world.”

Killua snorts. “Do you even realize what you’re saying?” He shakes his head. “Alluka is clearly a powerful entity from another world that isn’t meant to be linked to ours. I’ve heard of Doorways before—portals that mages and warlocks use to converse with demons and spirits. And this place was like… a moving canvas of paper and ink.” He sighs. “There’s no way that I could find her in this reality.”

Gon hums under his breath. “Killua. Illumi will try to kill her, and Nanika too.”

His stare is scrutinizing. Earnest.

Killua turns away, frustrated at the blush bristling under his skin.

“She sounds amazing,” continues the courier, smirking teasingly towards Killua and casually bumping shoulders with him. “You shouldn’t give up, just based on assumptions. If I gave up with that way of thinking in life, we wouldn’t have made it more than a week into traveling together.”

Killua rolls his eyes at this, even with the tender spark that lights up his chest at the thought.

He struggles to ignore the close proximity of the courier beside him; Gon’s body heat drifts and threatens to wrap around him like a fur cloak. He wants to sink into this waiting, tempting embrace, and wishes that his exhaustion could be traded with the courier’s own reckless amazement and energy.

"… Are we almost there?” Killua whispers.

Gon chuckles. “We’re going to land soon. She’s served us well.” He grins and pats the back of the moonbeam hawk, who trills and releases a delighted song through the night. “It’s almost morning, anyway. She’ll be wanting to return to her hatchlings. Good thing she makes the rest of the journey a little bit easier.”

Killua nods, and wordlessly brushes his fingers over the hawk’s silver, star-washed feathers. He considers whispering something as a form of thanks to the mother hawk, still holding back the dry laughter at the fact that the courier actually managed to wrangle a monstrous bird to come to their rescue.

 _No, wrangle’s the wrong word._ He pauses, palm pressing flat to the bird’s soft back. _Convince? Coerce? Trick?_ He clicks his tongue. _Any of those would work, with an idiot like him._

“We’ll talk more tomorrow,” says Gon, his attention still fixed on the receding valley beneath them. “About what you saw. I want to hear all of it.” He smiles at Killua, nodding. “I want to know more about Alluka and Nanika, and what they mean to you.”

Killua stiffens. His heart strikes his ribs.

“Wha—why?” He growls. “I already told you—”

“You knew her for years, Killua.” Gon tilts his head. “Why wouldn’t I want to know about her? Or what she did to make you smile like that?”

Killua blinks. “I’m not smiling.”

“You _were_ , though.” Gon bites the inside of his cheek, clearly containing some peal of amusement that would only embarrass the mage further. “It’s… not like your other ones. It’s a soft smile. My Aunt Mito used to say that smiles were like the chameleon of expressions, and that it only makes sense to people who really know the person doing it.” He clears his throat. “Your sad smiles and happy smiles could look the same to a stranger, but to me, they’re like night and day. Or like moonbeam hawks and dragons.”

Killua hesitates, rolling his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Gon shrugs. “You have more than one kind of eye-roll, too.”

Killua sputters. “Wha—fuck you!”

Gon bursts into laughter, and the sound follows rings in Killua’s ears until the breaking dawn.

* * *

 

 

* * *

The closest village is far smaller than Villenov, with only one shop and less than thirty residents total. Still, Gon and Killua are cautious and well-aware, muscles sore with exhaustion and pockets empty from coin and supplies. The taste of the night air is fresh on their tongues, and the feel of the moonbeam hawk’s feathers still live strongly beneath Killua’s hands.

Though, Killua keeps his mouth closed shut as suspicious villagers eye the outsiders with wide, skeptic interest. Several early farmers have come to till their fields. Crops stand as withering stems in the receding dusk, the prominent petals of medicinal herbs and flowers striking Killua with familiarity, though he’s far too tired to actually attempt to remember what each plant is called.

“We appreciate you letting us stay here for the morning!” Gon says, once again exercising his impressive way with words with several authoritative figures in the village.

Killua grumbles under his breath and remains close to the courier’s side, hesitant with each step they take on the path that leads to only a handful of straw houses, brimming with brick chimneys and tiny families within each one.

Killua snaps into attention as the courier slaps a folded set of blankets in his arms. He raises an eyebrow at the courier.

“What are these for?”

Gon giggles. “For sleeping, of course! There’s an empty room in one of these spare houses. We’re not the first lost travels to show up in these parts. Pretty sure I’ve been here a couple times too, with Kurapika…” he trails off, meandering in his own thoughts.

Killua frowns. “Kurapika?” he echoes. “You’ve never mentioned that name.”

“Oh—um.” Gon laughs, awkwardly scratching his cheek. “You’ll be meeting him soon!”

Killua’s eyes draw up and down the courier’s features, noting the distinct bruises and cuts slanting along his cheeks and jaw. In addition to this, despite his attempting to hide it, Killua easily scopes out the clear limp in the courier’s movements, especially in the left side of his body.

“You’re so stupid,” mutters Killua. “Come on. You’re in way worse shape than I am.”

Gon frowns. “Huh? No, I’m not, Killua—”

“I will paralyze you and drag you into whatever place we’re staying in myself if you don’t shut up and follow me.” Killua snorts, not even bothering to glance over his shoulder at the courier’s surely bewildered—and probably amused—expression.

It takes only minutes for the two of them to push open the door to the hovel and set aside their respective blankets on the soft, tender wooden floors. Old pottery vases and bowls are stacked in the corners. A stalk of withered larkspurs dangle over the fireplace, the pot spilled over with bone-dry soil.

Killua stops in removing his shoes, wincing at the growing aches in his feet and toes. He turns to the courier, who studies him with a rather unreadable expression. Gon’s hands are cupping his cheeks, his large, childish honey eyes scoping Killua from head to toe, as if inspecting the wrong number of strings in a violin.

“… _What_?” Killua snaps, rubbing his neck and adjusting his shirt over his body. He refuses to admonish Gon’s chuckle, or the way the courier quickly slides closer to him, his nose pressing teasingly into his ribs. Killua stiffens and slaps his hand over the other man’s face. “What’s wrong with you? You’re acting like some lost puppy. It’s weird.”

Gon grins before grabbing Killua’s wrist.

Killua barely has a second to understand the look in the courier’s eyes when he squeaks and finds himself pulled into the space beneath the blankets next to the other man. He bristles at the close proximity, overwhelmed with the sudden presence of his palms pressed to Gon’s broad, warm chest. He stutters, swallowing the lump in his throat, even as his fingers instinctively reach towards the tender thrumming of the other’s heart.

Gon brushes a thumb along Killua’s cheekbone. He hesitates in response, unsure, though he doesn’t move from his place next to the courier. The calloused caress sends an unfamiliar shiver down his spine, derived from emotions he wishes to uncover without questioning the reasons why they are there.

Killua holds his breath.

It’s more of a curse than a blessing, for Gon to be this handsome.

His olive skin and natural girth, coupled with a dimpled, natural smile and soul-soothing laugh. His bright, powerful eyes, always watching him and assessing him like pools of storming amber and fire. His scars, both revealed in the open and hidden beneath his cloak, his sleeves, and his very soul.

Even now, Killua can hardly resist allowing his hand to trail up Gon’s bare arm, marveling at the subtle heat blossoming from his skin and the thick scars patterning the surface. They slither on the surface, like cracks sealed with gold and history.

“I don’t regret it,” he says.

Gon blinks, suppressing a yawn. His lazy smile remains, transfixed beneath the slightest shimmer of dawn drifting through the straw roof.

“Hm? Regret what?” He asks, carding one hand through Killua’s hair.

The mage hesitates.

“Meeting you. I don’t—,” blushes and coughs into his elbow. “You’re… I don’t…”

_I don’t know where I would be if you weren’t here._

Gon presses his mouth to Killua’s, lips soft and warm.

The kiss is chaste, and lasts barely more than a heartbeat or two, but as soon as it ends Killua wishes for more.

He licks his lips, watching Gon with a new lungful of relief drawn into his body, into his very mind and spirit.

“I have something I want to show you, tomorrow, when we get there,” says Gon, his smile remaining—a ghost of something heavy with happiness and solemnity that Killua instantly wishes to hold in his hands.

Killua musters a small, bemused smirk. “Whatever, Courier.”

The sound of Gon falling asleep beside Killua, arms wrapped around him and pulling him tightly to his chest, is not enough to quell the subtle, blooming gentleness storming within Killua and engulfing him whole.

He dares not move from his position, enraptured in this hold. In Gon Freecss.

“Gon…” he trails off, blinking away sleep.

_What have you done to me?_


	15. Unto Tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for being on this journey with me. This last chapter is pretty loooooong, so... bear that in mind, haha. You're all wonderful, and this fic is my baby.
> 
> Thank you, Shawn, for beta-ing this chapter and pushing me to finish this story since halfway through. Forever thankful.
> 
> Hope you guys like it.

It was the turn of Gon’s seventh year when he learned the fundamentals of magic.

Despite what the other residents in the neighboring villages had expected, Mito was not a woman to be trifled with when concerning her knowledge of the ancient magical arts.

From the emotional core of an Arcane, to the spiraling control from a warlock, to the transmuted energy of an elemental, to the natural-borne powers gifted to a mage. Each teaching and fragment of understanding through history carefully threaded together in a long quilt, constantly challenging and pushing those who were willing to listen.

“What was she like?”

Gon blinks, calloused fingers gripping tightly around each knuckle.

Killua Zaoldyk stares straight ahead, carrying a satchel over his back with what little supplies they have left.

Gon’s heart skips, an action that often follows when the mage bothers speaking to him with little to no aggression or malice in his voice. He enjoys listening to what Killua has to say in any mood, even when he was so furious his skin turned a stark shade of rose-pink.

“Hm,” Gon says, adjusting the straps of the traveling bag on his shoulders. “She was amazing, and beautiful, and kind.” He rolls his bottom lip under his teeth. “She always thought the best of everyone, but wasn’t afraid to protect me. Even when she passed away, she died doing just that, yelling for me to escape, even when she knew that I wouldn’t.” Solemnity weighs down his shoulders. “I don’t think there was a day that went by without her telling me a story or reading a poem out loud.”

He spares a glance at Killua, who’s gone even quieter in both his steps and his collective, thoughtful murmuring.

The mage’s hood is pulled to the nape of his neck, a messy array of silver locks spilled out over threadbare cloth. A scar cuts through his left eyebrow—a detail Gon hadn’t bothered to take notice of before, but under the pale, growing light of a wintry morning, these smaller details turn all the more apparent, like glimpsing firelight in a young blanket of fog.

“You make her sound like an angel or something,” says Killua.

Gon smirks, his chuckle low and tender in the brittle air.

“Maybe she was.”

They continue walking, a casual slump to their movements as the day grows older.

The sky has bled from dark blue to a canvas of coppery orange and velveteen purple. For just a moment, Gon imagines whispered stories from long ago, echoed in his mind with hardly as much beauty and energy as when he’d heard them from Mito herself.

He longs for her voice to lull him into a slumber that the boy inside him craves, during a time where he hadn’t realized he had Arcane blood flowing through his veins.

As the mist recedes in the forest trails, a vast whisper of leaves turns brittle and flake on rowans and oaks. Massive tree trunks and thin ones alike interweave and encircle around labyrinths of roots and snapped branches.

Drying mulch crunches under each step, streaks of mud forming crumbled sleeves around the soles of their shoes. Gon and Killua have had their fair share of callouses and blisters through their last few weeks of travel, and with the earth shifting from calming autumn to slick, iced planes in the grass, it’s more obvious now than ever that the cycle has begun shifting.

“So we’re going to arrive at this, _outpost_ , or whatever you call it, when winter reaches its cusp?” Killua snorts. “Of course, we had to drag this weird, crazy journey out for you to time it just right.”

Gon leans over, and nudges Killua with his elbow. “It’ll be fine. Just wait and see! Before you know it, they’ll all love you.” He nods his head, determined. “Ging will be impressed.”

“With _what_?” Killua blinks. “You’re taking an unshackled, deadly mage prisoner with you to your secret hideout regime… thing. How do you know that the first thing they won’t do is attack?” He shakes his head. “My magic is fluctuating at this point. Today is better than others, but I doubt I could demonstrate everything I could do by the time we arrive.”

“Eh? They won’t attack you!” Gon shrugs. “I mean, they could try, but, I think the only person you would struggle with would be Kurapika.” He dips his head, considering. “Maybe.”

"Sure, sure. Is he another Arcane?”

 “Yeah. He is.”

“Well, then, good—wait, _what_?” Killua startles, jamming his heels into the dirt. Gon stops several paces ahead and glances back at him, a questionable lift in his eyebrow. “There’s _two_ of you? That’s crazy. Arcanes are so rare, and the fact that there could be two of you in the same place…” He bites his lip. “What’s his core emotion?”

Gon’s grip tightens around the satchel straps. He wishes he could spill Kurapika’s secrets to put Killua’s mind at ease, given the genuine curiosity that the mage is currently showing. Still, if Kurapika discovered the information he let loose, there would definitely be a confrontation as soon as they arrived into Aedorin.

“You should ask him,” he says, and laughs at the offended gawk Killua sends his way. “Trust me! You’ll want to hear the story from him! Kurapika’s really good at telling old tales and stuff, and the one about how he found out he was Arcane is really interesting.”

Killua considers this, and turns away with a huff. They proceed down the path, the trees slowly spreading apart to arc into an open terrain of cobbles and grass. Gon bounds forward, shielding his eyes as he looks up towards the gaping crown of trees overhead.

His green cloak drifts over his ankles, carrying the scent of the woodlands and the faintest traces of spiced meats and burnt sugar. He licks his lips and beams at Killua, who watches him with barely a flicker of acknowledgement on his features.

“It’s just around this corner!”

“Oh, good,” says Killua, rolling his eyes, “after three days of traveling on foot. I swear, if we actually show up at some kind of stable filled with moonbeam hawks and briarhorns and whatever creatures you talk to…”

Gon laughs, and scratches his cheek. “No, not exactly.” He waits until Killua comes up to his side, the mage all the more hesitant as he stares into the clear divide that bridges the dense forests and the turning point of civilization ahead.

They are nearing a strip of territory kept secret from the Chimera Ant King and his wife; a tall stone spire with red bricks and a square series of gardens littered with the lingering mist of fresh blood, rotting flesh, and dry bones. The skeletons of their enemies, felled beneath strength that far surpassed that of a normal man’s, aided into god-like channels of power that thrived off of his intense anger and need for vengeance.

“It’s an unquenchable thirst,” Kurapika had told him once, his scarlet eyes sunken through with shadows. “It’s not something we can always control, but I plan to learn how. To make it better.”

It was once an ironic passing of humor between friends, when Gon would repair wooden bannisters next to Kurapika and Ging, and listen to them discuss what they should name the tower and its residential gardens.

He was the only one opposed to naming it anything that contained any reference to blood, flesh, or bone.

He believed the Chimera Ants deserved to fall under his hand as any other rebel against the King’s forces, but to glorify in their time after death seemed out of touch. And to speak of them in relation to the Arcane race, and how they thrived off of the need to kill as well as the act behind it, had smothered him into a corner he never expected.

A tender, feather-light pressure rests on his shoulder. His simmering blood and grinding teeth reset and relax, relishing the subtle calming waves that envelop his insides and soul in an embrace he wishes he could lean into completely.

He jerks out of his thoughts, blinking into the ray of sunlight swarming over the horizon and spilling over a small wooden bridge coming into their view. Stone pillars greet them with signs pointing in several directions, wood chipped off the corners in splintered handprints.

Killua’s hand squeezes his shoulder, pale fingers delving into the cloth. His frown is stern and careful, his glare hardened into frozen pools.

“Stay with me, Courier,” he whispers.

Gon twitches, searching every detail of the mage’s face, and wonders just when Killua had decided to come up to the space next to him and voluntarily touch him. He sucks in a long breath, fascination and fondness flickering in his body and flaring to life. He moves his mouth to speak, only for Killua to reach in and capture his lips in a quick, chaste kiss.

Killua pulls away from him and sprints a few yards ahead, his cheeks and ears tinted pink.

Gon bites his lip to prevent a snort.

 _Deadly mages shouldn’t be adorable_ , he muses.

* * *

 

 

 

 

* * *

When they arrive at the outpost, Killua’s nerves spark into life underneath his skin—crawling like thousands of tiny ants. He wrinkles his nose and steps onto a wide stretch of grass and flowers that loops around the tall, red sandstone tower stretching high and unwavering towards the fading periwinkle sky.

The cracked stones are too sunburnt red, as if soaked in blood, and it makes him hesitate for only a second while Gon comes over to his side.

“Don’t be nervous,” says Gon.

“I’m not _nervous_ , stupid!” Killua spits, glaring harshly into the ground. He kicks his shoes over the frosted grass, a generous cold gust wafting through the air and whipping about his sleeves. “It’s… I expected something bigger. You never mentioned how large your actual regime was.”

Gon chuckles, glancing up at the tower with warmth in his smile. “So, you’re nervous.”

Killua doesn’t even spare him a glance. “Shut up.”

He swallows reflexively, pushing down the concerned array of electric currents spilling into his bones. Any wrong move could release a tendril of lightning without his consent, or strike anyone who would leave or enter the tower. He scans the area, frowning at the lack of neighboring pillars to support the overall main structure, and the unsettling feeling in his gut doesn’t waver with the lack of bodies present.

“You’ve killed a lot of people here,” he whispers.

Gon stares at him. “Aedorin’s seen worse days. There shouldn’t be any ambushes while we’re here. We should head inside, so that I can introduce you to everyone.”

Killua shakes his head. “No, I—they won’t react well to that.” He can hardly believe that he is about to meet the legendary Ging Freecss, even though the apparent adventurer’s son will most likely vouch on his behalf.

“Well they’re going to meet you eventually, Killua.” Gon frowns. “I can’t leave you out here all night, you know. I promise, nothing is going to go out of hand. Ging already had an idea that I would have talked to you before bringing you here, and I doubt they would even expect you to still be in manacles.” His face darkens slightly, as if recalling the restraining effects those iron clasps had on Killua’s body and magic. “Besides, they’re not needed.”

Before Killua can reply, the heavy wooden door to the tower opens. It slaps the stone walls of the tower, shaking red dust from its hinges.

A taller, lithe man stands at the entrance, his fair skin and shoulder-length golden hair falling like flax strands beside fair, high cheekbones. He locks instantly onto Killua, those dark shadowed eyes brimming with crimson fire. He looks as if he’s stumbled out of his bedchambers, threadbare shirt and cotton pants hanging loose and frazzled over his slender, yet toned frame.

Killua freezes.

_A Kurta?_

“Kurapika!” Gon calls, waving with a broad smile. “I’m back a couple days early! You can tell Ging that we’ve arrived—”

“Why isn’t he contained?” Kurapika says. His voice travels smooth and ripe with exhaustion.

Gon stiffens. Killua clenches his teeth, and takes several steps forward, only for Gon to squeeze his forearm and march towards this newcomer— _Kurapika_ , Killua quietly notes—as the courier makes his way to the door and stands a hairsbreadth away from the other boy.

“He _isn’t_ a threat,” says Gon, his voice dropping an entire octave, “and he’s _not_ a prisoner. I brought him to help with the regime, like Ging asked.”

Kurapika quirks an eyebrow. He reminds Killua of a possessed statue, completely devoid of emotions that would hinder some organic control. Even the slightest purse of his lips seems to move and shift like manipulated marble.

“So you trust him, just like that? You really think that this is a good idea? A good way to introduce an infamous killer to our hidden regime, Gon?” Kurapika shakes his head. “Just because he hasn’t struck you now, doesn’t mean he won’t—”

“Oi, I love it when people talk about me like I’m not here, but…” Killua shrugs. “If you want to pick a fight, be my guest. I won’t lose.” He drops the satchel from his shoulders, a crooked grin overtaking his lips as his fingers splay open and his palms burst with electric currents.

Kurapika instinctively reaches for the belt around his hip, and when he comes further into the light, it becomes apparent that the weapon beneath his grasp is a longsword. He draws it halfway out of its hilt, though Gon is quick enough to reach out and snatch Kurapika’s wrist in his own hand, his veins glowing and pulsing with orange and white energy.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he says, a warning present in his growl.

Kurapika returns the stare, a snort riding on his lips. “Why are you protecting—”

“I’m gone for an hour and _this_ is what happens. Unbelievable…”

Killua snaps his head over towards the intruder, and instantly straightens. It’s almost hilarious, with how similar and interchangeable Gon looks from his father, aside from the expectant differences.

Ging Freecss is a few inches shorter than his son, bearing the familiar scruff above a loose gray turban, a green cloak, dark brown riding boots and a messy array of deep black hair. His large mahogany eyes are sunken through and dark, carrying waves of mischief and the promise of something entirely new when engaged in conversation.

Killua knows this man possesses a silver tongue and an infamous attachment to alcohol, though the happiness he expects to see radiating from Gon at spotting his father is turned into shock when the courier doesn’t even turn to face him.

“They’ve just arrived,” says Kurapika, slowly sheathing his sword. “I was reprimanding Gon for bringing the prisoner here without any restraints. Seems a bit counterproductive to the overall plan of bringing him here as some form of collateral.”

Gon steps back, his glare hardening.

“Killua is _not_ a hostage.”

“Ah, ah, alright, you two.”

Ging chuckles dryly and quickly steps between them, wagging his finger in a condescending motion before lightly patting Gon on the shoulder. Gon steps backward and angrily stomps over to Killua, his hardened gaze and clenched fist striking the mage as more than just tightly wound.

“Gon, what—”

“Come with me.” Gon sighs, biting his lip. “ _Please_.”

Killua’s protests die on his tongue. He looks over to where Kurapika and Ging are already engaged in a heated discussion, a nervous trail shooting up his spine at the thought of being caught between them in an altercation. He scoffs at the thought of Kurapika only bringing up a sword against his magic, but if he was truly Arcane, then there were other methods he needed to consider.

He reads Gon’s desperation and apologetic stance in the way he carries himself, tense like a looming shadow of green and messy spikes for hair. He holds his breath, unsure, and then finally nods in confirmation.

“Sure. Lead the way.”

He expects the courier to bid his goodbyes to his father and friend, but not a single address is made when they pass them, his hand firmly clasped in the courier’s.

They walk in silence, a delighted rise in his chest and stomach at the feel of the courier’s calloused, strong grip wound around his hand and keeping him close to his body. He can sense warmth rising from Gon’s body with each stride, even as the growing winter cold laps at the nearby flowers and crawls over the tower’s red bricks.

Eventually, they circle the tower completely and arrive in front of an outcropping that just from the main structure in a square of stone and wood. A chimney spirals out of the roof, plumes of steady gray and black smoke careening towards the sky. 

Gon inhales, and exhales, a slow and deliberate motion, and then turns to smile at Killua. Each movement is slower than normal, and Killua is suddenly reminded of the courier’s aching wounds from only a week before, where Illumi’s damage certainly remained.

“It’s warmer in there. We can have some privacy, you know, before we have to go over things. Ging was probably too drunk to even talk about anything, anyway,” he says, trailing off, as if not entirely sure of his own words. Despite this, the sparkle in his eyes is youthful and no less mesmerizing, and Killua forces himself to gulp and look away before he becomes lost in them.

Killua steadies himself, drinking in the scenery and the peaceful image of the courier.

_None of this seems real…_

Was his brother still following them? Still waiting for the next move to strike? Or was he trailing after Alluka and Nanika, somehow discovering a way to open a passage into their world and bleed them dry?

The thought alone makes him ill.

He shakes his head, collecting what little concentration he can before his worries leak out into the open like sand from an hourglass. He finds Gon’s patient smile, though the courier seems unsettled himself, as if he’s shouldering a series of tensions and concerns that he doesn’t wish to make known yet.

“You said something about Mito. About her telling great stories.” Killua scratches his cheek, coughing into his fist to hide the growing blush on his cheeks. He groans at the clear amusement shining in Gon’s eyes, though he welcomes this in place of the burning anger he had before. “So, while showing me around, just—do your Freecss thing. Or whatever. Tell me things. Or not. It’s up to you. But you should. Or something.”

Gon breaks into another laugh, shaking his head.

“You’re perfect,” he says, and the way he looks at Killua makes his insides melt.

* * *

 

 

 

 

* * *

When Gon bothers to show him the inside of the tower outcropping, Killua is left cautious in the doorway with the invasive smells of spiced meats, salted peppers and raw vegetables. His mouth waters at the thought of food, and even more so at the sight of the courier shifting about and moving black kettles and pots from the one table in the center of the room to the space by the window.

A cobblestone counter stretches from one end of the tiny building to another, littered with open threadbare sacks overstuffed with uncooked lentils, shaved cornstalks, and strips of rosemary and thyme left in frocks over the fireplace. Garlic and dried fruits are woven into braids, dangling from the ceiling and over the crackling embers in the belly of the hovel.

“You want to help me make something?” Gon asks, grinning brightly as he stands back up and cards one hand through his hair. Sweat beads dot his forehead and temples from the fresh bloom of heat. “We have a new shipment, it looks like, from one of the providers out of this side of the country. Even far past Antokiba and other villages close to it. Ging has a lot of connections, even from old enemies.”

Killua stares at the counter space and the intimidatingly large array of ingredients. He could hardly remember ever learning to cook for himself, not with his parents ordering servants and other poorly paid cooks to suit their needs. He never considered anything he’d eaten under his parent’s watch to be flavorful or even worth his time.

“I…” He grunts, a flush rising up in his neck. He comes over to the edge of the table, tapping his fingers on the top. “I’ve never cooked before.”

Gon shrugs, his soft grin and even gentler eyes more than enough to keep hold of Killua’s growing concerns.

“Then I’ll show you.” He gestures with a flick of his head to one of the sacks in the corner. “It doesn’t look like they’ve changed a lot of things since I left. There should be some rooster and quail eggs in the corner.”

Killua clamps his jaw tight, yet nods. He follows the instructions Gon gives him through the next few minutes, focused on the intricate details woven into the fabric for each vegetable and grain, and the way he laughs whenever he accidentally picks the wrong ingredient to bring to him. He holds back a scoff each time, though when he finally comes to Gon’s side at the counter, watching the courier set up a long crown of carrots over a cutting board, he suppresses a grin.

“So, what, is this the real Arcane secret? Learning cooking and baking like some timid housewife?” He grins at the sharp glint in Gon’s eyes, mischievous and telling.

“Mm, no.” Gon straightens. “Is this the secret of all mages? Learning how to cook from Arcanes?”

Killua scoffs. “Whatever. I bet you’re a terrible cook.”

“You ate everything I made for you back in the woods!”

“You boiled a sweet potato. It was nothing special.”

“But you still ate the whole thing!” Gon chides, tapping the counter with a knife. “It’ll be fun, Killua! It’s like fighting, or casting a spell, but with… food.”

Killua snorts. “Yeah, sure, it’s the exact same thing. Forgive me for mistaking carrots for magic wands.” He rolls his eyes, though rubs his palms together anyway to prepare them for setting out the ingredients. “How many of these do we even need?”

Gon chuckles. “Think it’d be more fun if we just figured it out as we went along.”

“What?! That’s the exact opposite of what you should want to do for cooking—”

“You won’t know until you try!”

“You’ve officially gone crazy, Courier.”

The smooth cooking process turns into a battle of sharp tongues and harmless insults. Killua is barely able to lock onto each hidden meaning behind Gon’s words, and finds it incredibly difficult to focus when the other man is always leaning too close to him to whisper in his ear, somehow turning words like “salt” and “poultry” into sensual terms.

Warmth floods into the hovel, enveloping both seasoned travelers in a cloak. Killua hums contentedly to himself, wiping his hands together as he glances over the roasted duck and accompanying boiled eggs and spiced, baked apples that Gon had spent a solid hour instructing him how to accomplish. The pride that swells in his chest from looking over a simple meal startles him.

Gon wipes sweat from his brow. “Looks good!” He smiles. “I knew you could do it, Killua! Just had to believe in yourself and go for it!”

“I always believe in myself,” says Killua, shrugging and grinning crookedly. “Obviously, no one else would’ve been able to fry this duck like me.”

“You roasted it, you didn’t fry it.” Gon’s lips twitch. “There’s a difference!”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes! Of course it does.” Gon taps his chin. “My aunt Mito used to tell me how certain ingredients come together to make something new, but that even when you tried to do something new you still had to follow some kind of recipe.” He shrugs. “If you’re going to fry the duck, you have to use a different kind of oil and cook it in a different way. Roasting it is a little easier, and definitely healthier.”

Killua smirks, curious. “Think you’re more of a secret cook than the son of Ging Freecss. Unless, he’s also some culinary wizard of his own kind.”

Gon blurts out a snort. “Yes, that’s the secret of all Arcanes. They don’t even know their potential until they realize it was their calling to be cooks all along.” He grins despite himself, though the expression seems hollow. Detached.

Killua frowns at this. Sighing, he leans over, and bumps shoulders with Gon. The courier blinks out of his daydreaming, staring at him with shadows dwelling in his gaze. The muscles in his forearms and neck tense up at the brush of skin.

“… Gon, did I…?” he asks, surprised that he’d voiced it aloud.

He turns away from Gon, hoping that the unsettled ripples teeming under his skin and squeezing around his heart subsides.

“What?” Gon straightens, alarmed. The sudden movement startles Killua enough to make him jump, though he braces his weight next to the countertop, his jaw tight. “Killua, no—you didn’t do or say anything. Don’t think that.” He exhales, running his fingers through his hair.

The lack of confidence suddenly taking hold of the courier’s motions engulfs Killua in a haze. He wants to reach out, and somehow reassure him with a touch of his hand, or the grazing of his lips—anything to calm the conflicting storm swallowing up Gon’s body.

Killua clears his throat, considering. He reads the way Gon moves from the counter and leans down to examine the food they’d created, the heavy smells wafting through the hovel and flooding the mage’s nostrils. He licks his lips, hunger stirring in his stomach, even as his attention wavers and focuses on the man looking far more detached than he had in any of the days they’d spent traveling together.

“You seem different,” Killua whispers.

Instantly, Gon leans up, his soft smile far too dry and unconvincing for Killua’s liking. The sparkling mirth and sense of adventure that had drawn Killua to him during their travels has momentarily left, replaced with a vision that causes the mage’s insides to quake.

“Just, memories. I guess. Mito, and cooking with her in our cottage.” He swallows. “Before she died. I don’t really… remember what it’s like to not be an Arcane. I love the power that comes with it, of course.” He shrugs. “It helped me take revenge against an Ant that led the first siege on my old home.”

Killua’s brow furrows at these details. He recalls hearing about several excursions over the land underneath King Meruem’s rule, and those who refused to become converted into his army were disposed of immediately. Even though the highly esteemed Royal Guard were destroyed, and most of the survivors had scattered for recovery, their legacy would remain instilled in history like needles sewing tales into fabric.

“She’s gone now.” Gon nods. “So, it doesn’t matter.”

Killua slowly shakes his head. “It does, if it makes you act like this.” He places his hands in his pockets. “Thought you would be bouncing up and down like usual. Introduce me to your Arcane friend and your father.” He considers these details, a pensive twitch in his mouth. “You didn’t mention that the other Arcane was a survivor of the Kurta Massacre.”

Gon grins crookedly at this. “Yeah, well. Figured you would find out yourself.”

“And he doesn’t trust me.”

“He will.”

Killua holds back a scoff. “How can you be so sure? After all this? Obviously I trust you, and you trust me, given that you were the crazy moron who removed my bonds in the first place…” he scratches his ear. “I’m here now, so, what am I supposed to do? Wait for the next plan of action? Assume that they’re going to trust me to not kill them like I did to those people all those years ago?”

“But that _wasn’t_ you, Killua,” says Gon, his hands balling up into fists. “That _wasn’t_ you—”

“Yes. It was. Don’t try to convince me otherwise, Courier.”

Before Gon can reply, the door swings open, revealing none other than Kurapika Kurta. The Arcane looks disheveled and distracted, his naturally proud stance carved through with weary lines ingrained from long ago. Killua sees many years of turmoil and inner anguish change this young warrior’s features, like glimpsing scars sealed over a worn soul.

Gon instinctively moves closer to Killua. His posture is less tense than before, shoulders square and jaw pointed towards Kurapika as if offering a silent conversation.

“I understand,” he begins, a strain in his chapped lips, “that there’s a reason for the mage to be here.” He exhales, tucking one strand of hair behind his ear.  “I’ve spoken with Ging, about the arrangements we’ve been instigating with inside forces in Antokiba. King Meruem is still too heavily guarded for a direct attack, but having the Zaoldyk mage here,” he continues with a vague gesture towards Killua, “will make the process… smoother, I suppose.”

Gon spares not one blink while the other man speaks. It dawns on Killua, just how much history has stretched between these two people, and how intensely connected their opinions are to one another.

He reads the air of authority and calm temperament on Kurapika, as if embodying him in a translucent cloak, though Gon’s own emotions bristle into the open air in torrential embers.

“Killua isn’t just _a mage_ ,” Gon says, each word dunked in a fine layer of venom, “he’s our _ally_.”

Killua’s chest swarms with heat at the declaration.

He coughs into his fist, simultaneously aggravated and delighted to hear the courier defend him in front of a close friend, even when he’s perfectly capable of doing so himself.

He locks onto Kurapika’s uncertain stare, those faded irises glistening between shades of dull iron and vivid garnet.

“… If you remember, I was the only one who opposed Ging in his decision to send you off. The other recruits, who are away from the tower as we speak, voted to have him here.” Kurapika slowly turns completely towards Killua, his features hardening into carved rock. “I must admit, I expected more from a Zaoldyk. Perhaps my expectations were too high.”

Killua’s teeth grit.

“Kurapika—”

“No, Gon. It’s fine.”

He takes a bold few steps over to where Kurapika leans in the doorway, forming a blockade that both courier and Arcane would gladly dare to cross. Killua holds his breath, and searches the deep pools of Kurapika’s gaze, hooking into secrets and untold hesitations that would render any commander weak to the bone.

“If I wanted to kill any of you, believe me, you wouldn’t be saying these words to me right now, begging me to do just that.”

The muscles in Kurapika’s neck and jaw tighten. His fingers wrap sturdily around his forearms, clutching onto what control he has left. Killua pauses, wondering, for a brief second, if he will be able to notice Arcane energy sliding through the Kurta survivor’s veins.

The need to challenge this older, more experienced warrior drives Killua to smirk at the lack of words coming in his direction.

He feels the tension rise in the room, stemming from both Arcanes and their conflicting temperaments. In the corner of his eye, he notices Gon straighten and regard them both with combined concern and uncertainty, the underlying current of protectiveness swarming him in a cloud.

“Gon.”

Kurapika swallows, though does not move from Killua’s icy glare.

The mage blinks at this and slowly steps back, glancing back and forth between them. With just those spare moments, he recognizes that he does not belong in this silent altercation brewing in the unmatched gait of two Arcanes.

Kurapika finally exhales, exasperated. Tired.

“We should talk.”

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

“He’s not our enemy, Kurapika.”

“I’m not going to argue with you about this.”

Frustration rises thick and heavy in Gon’s chest, threatening to constrict his windpipe like a squirming serpent.

They are standing in the third floor of the tower, walls polished and pristine since the last time Gon waxed the rocks and crevices himself. Glass windows reflect and pour through with grayish sunlight, carrying the impending winter’s glow in a caress over Kurapika’s frigid features.

“This isn’t just about whether or not he’s dangerous. You returned when Ging’s recruits were already gone, heading towards Antokiba to connect with our current spymaster.” Kurapika pinches the bridge of his nose, an exasperated sigh flooding the room. “But, there’s something else. And, you know very well that this is risky. Gon—the way you _look_ at him…” He regards the courier with shock and uncertainty in his stare, folding his arms over his chest. “What are you doing, leaving yourself—leaving your _soul_ —completely open and exposed to a _mage_?”

Gon’s nostrils flare. He resists punching the wall, holds back the steady temperament burning in his stomach. He expected Kurapika to question him about the clear changes shifting between him and Killua, though leading him away from the mage within only an hour of returning to Aedorin was not at all what he believed would happen.

“So Ging is gone?” he asks.

Kurapika clicks his tongue. “Not the point.”

“He’s supposed to be our ally for the upcoming attack, right? That was Ging’s plan all along.” Gon swallows, the movement reflexive and controlled despite the flurry of emotions twisting up his insides into knots. “So what would it matter if we’ve gone closer? If I’ve kissed him?”

His chest constricts, flashing back to the vision of Killua losing himself on more than one occasion to dark, malicious magic, his brother standing tall and powerful in the darkness swallowing their world.

“He’s strong. He’s—I’ve never seen anything like him before. I knew when I first saw him at the prison fortress that he was different. He _trusts_ me. And…” Gon bites his lip. “There’s something more, there. There has been for a while. And I think he feels it for me too.”

His gaze sweeps over the hard floors, trailing over Kurapika’s stiff posture.

“He’s saved me more than one time on our journey back.”

Kurapika rolls his bottom lip under his teeth. He turns, and glares out the closest window.

Cobwebs frame the overhanging lights. Dust motes float and wisp in the tender rays filtering through the ashen glass.

“There is one thing, though.”

Kurapika’s arms tighten around him.

“What is it?”

Gon’s eyes narrow, determined. “Killua’s brother, Illumi. He’s a warlock. He’s the real threat here, not Killua. If anything, we should move from here and find somewhere else to relocate. There are other fortresses and lands that the King hasn’t claimed yet, and Ging already knows where most of them are. We should leave Aedorin—”

“A warlock?” Kurapika frowns, standing straighter. At attention, like the commander he’s truly meant to be. “When was the last time you saw him? Is he still following you?” His brows shoot to his hairline. “Did—Gon, you didn’t lead someone that dangerous here, did you—”

“Killua hasn’t been able to sense him.” Gon crosses his arms, leaning back against the closed door. “So we should be safe, at this point. We have time to move.”

Kurapika snorts, rolling his eyes. “Ging won’t be thrilled about leaving the outpost based on an assumption. And to take the word of a mage into account, no less.”

“Killua is an ally that should be trusted. There are…” He smiles slightly, soft and wistful, at the thought. “There are secrets to him that you should know, too. But I’m not going to interrogate him. He’s going to be with us to help us, and I know that he would tell you if you asked.”

“I’m not interested in becoming friends with him.” Kurapika shrugs. “But he’s here, now, and if what you’re saying is true…”

“I’ll talk to Ging.”

Silence weighs down between them. Gon clears his throat, a sheepish smile on his lips.

“He’ll understand.”

Kurapika opens his mouth to reply, then shuts it tight. A visible shiver shakes his shoulders and chest, unspoken words pressed tightly inside.

Gon dips his head, taking this as his sign to leave. He turns, grabbing the doorknob and pulling it open, right as Kurapika comes over to his side and grasps his forearm. He stiffens, instinctively folding his right palm backward to strike, though Kurapika’s sunken eyes and stiff frown freeze him in place.

The Kurta’s fingers sink into his skin, threatening to pierce flesh and draw blood.

“Don’t be reckless,” Kurapika says, hesitantly releasing Gon’s arm with a shaking sigh. “It wouldn’t benefit anyone, to lose you.”

Gon rolls his wrist, cracking the bones in his hand, as if the tight grip from a fellow Arcane had hardly hurt him. He remembers several other times, sparring with Kurapika in the surrounding gardens, wooden swords and thin clothes barely forming enough protection against each other’s attacks. Many bruises had welded into his skin from the numerous times Kurapika had struck him, and now, the grip around his forearm still burns like a brand.

“You know, Kurapika,” says Gon, smooth and calm. His grin is weak and soft, one dimple pressing into his left cheek. “You really are similar to Killua. In a lot of ways.”

Kurapika only stares when Gon closes the door behind him.

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

_One week._

Killua sinks his teeth into the quill pursed between his thumb and index finger. The cursive letters engraved in the parchment scroll stretched out on the desk cobble together, bleeding like paint. He holds back a groan, and stares at the numerous balled crumples of paper he’d practiced on before.

None of them carry his thoughts accurately. This was supposed to be simple, as instructed by the likes of Kurapika himself, to properly convey his emotions and thoughts on a simple piece of paper while he was contained in the tower. Gon had been willing enough to show him various corners of the surprisingly large stretch of territory they considered theirs and not the King’s—though, even now, Killua has his doubts.

Seven days spent in this strange, unorthodox structure with only the courier, his legendary drunk of a father, an angry Kurta survivor with Arcane blood, and the occasional supporter passing through with letters and news for the lot of them. It seems odd, and strangely quiet, to be kept on these wide, tainted grounds with only a plan he doesn’t know of yet, and his trust lying heavily in Gon.

His fingers tense around the quill, the thought of the courier momentarily halting his breath. He swallows, and leans back in his chair.

_You really need to get through at least an hour without thinking about him, Killua…_

Purple blemishes shadow his eyes, deep and sunken through with exhaustion. He wipes at them, grumbling into the quietness of the spare study.

Outside, dawn slowly ascends over the treetops. Winter’s breath coasts over his windowsill, slipping through the cracks and ruffling his tousled silver-pale curls.

His hand trembles over the words he’d left scribbled into the margins, some crossed out with aggressive force. Pain, confusion, and imminent unsureness fuel the ink behind each and every letter—a consistent, violent stream in the wellspring of his thoughts.

_Alluka…_

He taps his fingernail on the desk, pondering.

“Where are you?”

The door creaks open. Killua starts, and immediately stands up with a firm sweeping of his eyes over the desk, his ratted clothes, and the emptied inkwells stashed in the corner.

“Killua?”

As if overcome in a cooling wave, Killua exhales and stares at the intruder.

Gon admonishes him with a secretive twitch in the corner of his mouth. Stripped of his cloak, he looks as if he’s just woken from a long sleep, dressed in loose patched trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt. The material glows over his amber-hued, scarred skin like a sheen of fresh-fallen snow.

Killua flushes, and coughs into his hand.

“Kurapika mentioned that you spend a lot of your time in here.” Gon clicks his tongue. “We’re going to have our first meeting about our change in plans with Ging tomorrow night. You’re invited, of course,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “but—I mean, I’m also here to check on you. I haven’t really seen you, and…” He pauses. “Did I do… something wrong?”

Killua blinks owlishly, holding back a scoff.

“No. You—of course you didn’t do anything wrong. All of this is…” he gestures vaguely to the windows and the widespread array of shelves, stacked to the brim with numerous tethered scrolls and worn leather books. “It’s all new to me. None of this is… what I expected, when coming here. I thought there would be a dozen armoires, with soldiers training outside every other hour, and messenger ravens and sparrows flying in.”

Gon closes the door and leans against the wall, broad arms folding over his chest. He seems stronger, now, with his presence emitting ripples of heat and confidence that Killua obtains in only his most daring moments. 

“Ging’s connections are scattered everywhere. But we’re kind of…” Gon wrinkles his nose, grinning bashfully. “Our own private regime? Kurapika knows all the numbers and everything, but having us here makes this location secret, and a good place for other soldiers to return to. A lot of them lost their families to the Ants in the first few waves of King Meruem’s culling.”

Killua stiffens at this.

“The culling…”

Just how many people suffered beneath the hand of a king who favored his human wife above all else? How many people would continue to die beneath the force of his Ants, each one convinced that humans were meant to bend to their will for only the purpose of pleasing a royal power?

His family had firmly believed those with pure magical blood were destined for great things, and were meant to reach farther than humans. The thought of his brother successfully directing him towards a future where he would call thunderstorms to kill thousands of humans at once, simply because they were not the same as him, chills him to the bone.

Killua’s fists clench. He reels in the rising anger in his stomach, recalling the void features of his mother so long ago, in that strange flurry of visions that Alluka and Nanika allowed him to witness. She’d regarded him in the Doorway with venom and frustration, disgusted with sight of him creating a world from the very beginning alongside a girl who shouldn’t exist.

Warm hands reach up to cup Killua’s face. He blinks, stepping back, as Gon’s familiar, tender smile addresses him with nothing but kindness and understanding swimming in his handsome features.

His strong cheekbones, the sleek scar running on the underside of his jaw, and the whirlpools of coal-fire amber in his irises draw Killua’s soul into another world. A world he wants to keep himself close to, and embrace without another thought.

Gon’s thumb brushes over Killua’s jaw. He opens his mouth instinctively, stepping closer to match the grin curling the courier’s mouth into an arch.

“Nothing is ever too late.” Gon’s voice is soft and strong—a silky baritone that combines their lingering breaths and heartbeats together. “You’re amazing, and what we’re going to do here will help you believe how amazing you are.”

Killua huffs out a chuckle, rolling his eyes. “You’re an idiot.” His confidence falters, however, when Gon slides closer to him, the two of them backing up to the wall with the courier’s hand lifting from his cheek to rest on the side of his head. “Can’t say things like that, you know. It’s stupid.”

Gon’s hearty chuckle leaves as a growl from his throat, rumbling and _powerful_ as it slides over Killua’s neck.

“There a reason you came in here, Courier?” Killua asks, his skin growing hotter with each second that passes. Gon’s body hovers, a ghosting tremor of electric fire threatening to close the space between them and erupt his heart into sparks.

“ _Mm_ , not important,” says Gon, dropping his mouth onto Killua’s clavicle and resting his smirking lips on the bare, pale skin. “Wanna focus on you.”

“Whatever—” Killua squeaks, and roughly smacks Gon in the arm as the courier muffles a laugh into his neck. “Shut _up_! You’re so embarrassing!” He splutters, shoving Gon off of him, cheeks flaring red. “Did you just—did you just _bite_ me?”

Gon’s mischievous grin is louder than any other answer. Killua huffs, muttering under his breath, before stepping forward, grabbing Gon’s collar, and pulling him into a kiss.

The clashing of lips and teeth is better than the first time they kissed, angry and distant under the moon and stars. He feels Gon’s tongue slide into his mouth, hot and urgent, their bodies pressing up against each other as hands reach and grab and _pull_ —

Something about this kiss, about holding Gon like this, about the way he rushes to embrace the other man, and listen to his sweet nothings and mock them all the same—something about it all echoes difference and belonging.

He folds into Gon, to his rushing, sweet, intense kisses, to his hands wrapping around the small of his back and crushing him even closer to his chest, to the realization that he’s _here_.

He’s not in the prison fortress any longer. He’s not trapped in an endless white world where a girl he once loved and lost is still searching, waiting, for him. He’s not tethered to the leash that Illumi had clasped around his neck, where he’d felt his own soul being ripped out of his chest. He’s not engrossed in the world of the Zaoldyk legacy, where the ancient foundation of their magic had gone from pure, to corrupted, to vicious and torturous.

He’d believed, once, that Gon Freecss was leading him to an untimely death. That he was aiming to kill him without consequence, that his plans for him were meant for nothing more than his name to be smeared in his own blood on an execution block.

Killua’s hands tremble, coasting gently over the fabric of Gon’s shirt, tempted to slip underneath and feel the scars that map out his battles, his conflicts with forces greater than just evil and good. 

“I want to see you,” he whispers, in a voice so unlike him, tantalizing and drunk off of an emotion he doesn’t understand. “ _Gon_.”

Gon’s answer is another growl—a thunderous vibration deep in his chest, a thrum in his heart that collides against the protective cage of bone. He lurches, and holds Killua closer to him, reveling in his whimpers, in the sacred words that drop from his lips like liquid gold.

Killua pulls away, flickering to Gon’s red, swollen lips, and the undeniable hunger stirring in his darkened eyes. He loses himself inside them once more, and for once, he doesn’t question the sudden desire to remain lodged in deep waters and never climb back out.

Then, Gon grins, crooked and alight.

Killua’s heart skips.

“Follow me,” he breathes, clutching Killua’s hands tightly in his own. “Let’s be alone together.”

* * *

 

 

 

 

* * *

Killua’s hands press to Gon’s chest, tracing along the patterns that drift over his abdominals and coast in scurried, vicious patterns up to his collarbones. His brow furrows, fascination lingering on his curved lips with each second that passes, heat drifting and wading under his touch in harmonious shambles.

Gon is a solid force of strength and unbridled instinct, and under the tender wash of evening stars spilling from outside the window, Killua knows that his is reserved solely for him. He reads the tenderness in Gon’s eyes, the understanding that they’re linked together now and not meant to part—

Gon’s hand reaches around his waist, fingers curling sturdily around his hip bone. He shivers as the courier’s hand travels underneath his shirt, sloping over his ribcage, counting the bones that protect the stuttering heart ramming and humming in his chest.

“Can hear you thinking,” Gon murmurs, his voice muffled in Killua’s hair.

Killua pauses, mouth opening in awe at the familiar rhythm of Gon’s heartbeat thumping under his palm. He wants to press closer and listen to its musical sound through the whole night, wishing that the walls containing them belonged to them and not to a tower reserved solely for the continued preservations of war.

“Just a lot on my mind,” he says.

Alluka’s wide, shining blue eyes and tender smile flash in his mind’s eye.

He clenches his teeth, guilt building and stocking high in his chest. He turns away from Gon’s natural warmth and stares up at the ceiling, so unlike the canopies of straw and occasional stone that formed most of the villages where they stayed in their travels.

Gon shuffles in the blankets, leaning up to prop his chin in the palm of his hand. Killua can feel his expectant glare, and almost relents when the protective hand counting his ribs pulls out from under his shirt and tugs him closer to the other’s strong chest.

“She’s still out there, Gon.”

His hands bunch into the sheets, seeking something he doesn’t know exists.

“Illumi is looking for her. He has to be.” He bites his lip, his breath shuddering and falling in-between the images of his brother finding Alluka, attacking her, _killing_ her—

_No. No. No._

That can’t happen.

Gon’s grip tightens around him. He buries his face into Killua’s neck, his presence overwhelming and comforting—a shadow emitting golden heat and fiery determination.

“She’s strong,” he says. Killua can picture his face, pupils dancing around in his eyes like bouncing pebbles. “And so are you.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that she’s out there, and that,” he hesitates, “that Illumi is looking for her now. He knows that I know she’s alive. That has to be the reason why he didn’t follow us here.”

His shoulders shake, nerves and past concerns, buried deep under layers of grief and sorrow, lurching upon him in a swirling vortex.

“She’s alone.”

_She has Nanika. She has Nanika. She has Nanika._

Gon’s arms tighten around him.

“… are you still having nightmares?”

Killua halts, blinking. He glances around the interior of Gon’s bedroom, his gaze sliding over the tapestries on the walls, the collection of gemstones huddled in the corner, and the small helping of unopened books propped on one of the higher shelves. He hopes that the deafening noise of his heart roaring in his ears is only reachable to him, and not the courier encasing him in a protective barrier of flesh, blood and bone.

“How did you…?”

“Ever since we met,” Gon pauses, as if searching for the correct answer, “you had them. But, these past few days, I’ve heard you scream in your sleep. Sometimes I would come in and watch you, to be sure you were okay.” He chuckles wryly. “Sorry, that’s a little weird, but, if you couldn’t sleep or feel safe, here…” he hums in thought, his voice light and airy, “there wouldn’t be a point in trying to sleep for me, either.”

Pressure builds in the back of Killua’s eyes. He sniffs, groaning in annoyance and attempting to hide the growing wetness in his companion’s sheets. His face burns, though it’s a combined result of annoyance, flattery, and begrudging acceptance of the courier’s ridiculous claims.

“Your logic continues to hardly make any sense,” he murmurs, “Courier.” Gon shifts his weight, pulling away from him, though Killua reaches backward and snatches Gon’s wrist before he can move too far away. “Don’t. I—,” he swallows, embarrassed, “stay here. Please.”

He expects a teasing remark, or a laugh, or any other gesture that reminds Killua simply of Gon Freecss and his unabashed shamelessness.

But, the warm press of lips against the nape of his neck startles him.

An explosion of embers careens under his skin, spreading from the tip of his ears to the ends of his toes.

“I’m not going anywhere, Killua,” Gon whispers, fingers trailing over Killua’s baring shoulder.

He presses another kiss, moving in a tender, caressing trail over the faded white lines that Killua reluctantly names as his own scars.

He prods, and searches, though not without restriction, as if constantly asking permission to explore the canvas that he considers to be Killua’s body and mind.

The thought of Gon’s sacrifices, his willingness to place his trust in Killua since the very beginning, putting aside his differences in favor of learning more about the mage in the magic chains… they strike Killua like the lightning he’s learned to control for so long, and in that moment he wants to cast aside his worst fears to embrace something new.

He shuffles, turning his body back towards Gon, and claiming his mouth in a kiss. He latches onto Gon’s bottom lip and sucks, using his other hand to grab the back of Gon’s head and pull him closer. His fingers trail over the nape, dusting over the raven-black fringe he’d often admire in secret from the back in their most mundane of walks in the woods, lost in one of many conversations.

Tears threaten to break into the surface and stop him from moving, from sealing this quiet moment with Gon. His soul longs for something else, an intangible piece of him that is nowhere near his reach.

Gon breaks the kiss, his brow furrowed even in the darkness.

“Killua…”

Killua freezes. His muscles tense up, coiled like brambles in a thicket.

_Don’t look at me like that!_

The hollowness in his chest never recedes. He looks into Gon’s eyes and searches for shards of his own self, of pieces he believed were there.

“Killua, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

_It’s not your problem._

Killua breaks into a hiccup, then a dreadful sob that engulfs his entire body. As if a wall collapsing in the confines of his mind, his worst doubts and fears spill into the open in a downpour. Tears stream down his cheeks, slipping over his swollen lips and soaking the fabric beneath him.

Gon immediately crushes him to his chest, whispering into his ear. His presence is too powerful, too soothing—

_I can’t have this._

Was Alluka just as scared as he was?

_I can’t have you._

Gon kisses him, again, and again, and again—

It’s torturous.

It’s wonderful, horrible, and beautiful, wrapped in a cacophony of flames and ice.

It’s everything Killua has ever wanted, doused in a pool of visions and dreams he never believed he could have.

He wishes he could reverse time and kill his brother before anything transpired, before he found himself flung into Gon’s life and making him a target due to his mistakes. He wishes he could free Alluka and Nanika from the dimension in which they’re trapped, and set their souls free.

Gon holds him the entire night, drifting between exhaustion and his stubborn unwillingness to leave Killua on his lonesome.

“You told me not to leave,” he says, for the hundredth time this very night, “don’t push me away. I’m not going anywhere.”

_Stop being stupid._

Killua glares, soft and bitter and _broken_ , into his own hand.

Alluka is still out there, searching for him. Waiting.

Gon is here, holding him close, and belongs in a place not yet tainted with him.

Killua grits his teeth. Pain blossoms in his chest, all-consuming. Destructive.

_Make a decision, you fool._

Dawn breaks too soon after he does.

* * *

 

 

* * *

Gon blinks away sleep, exhaustion seeping heavy and weighted into his bloodstream.

He pauses, hands groping for the presence of his closest companion—someone he’s come to see as much more than a friend—and stops. His first opening words, his greeting to the mage he’d kept so close to him through the entire night, suddenly lodges deafeningly in his throat, as if two hands have reached out of the ground and begun crushing his windpipe.

He’s not here.

_Where could he…_

Then, he remembers. Killua’s desperate cries, seemingly lost in his own thoughts but breaking into the open without restraint. His worries over the little girl who’d shaken his world, who still called to him in his dreams with eyes that looked so much like his. His sobs, shattering the shield around Gon’s heart and tugging at his self-control, at his ever-mounting bloodlust.

His desire to kill Illumi had grown more and more with each tear shed.

But now, Killua isn’t here.

_No…_

He pulls on his shirt and cloak in a hurry, barely remembering to slip on leather riding boots. He dashes out of his bedroom, pumping his arms and dashing down the corridor of the tower—

And nearly slamming headfirst into his father.

“ _Move_ ,” he chokes out, turning his body to careen down the stairwell.

Ging reaches out, and snatches his forearm, keeping him prisoner. Stationary.

“Eh, where do you think you’re—”

“ _Let_ _go of me, Ging_ ,” says Gon, darkly.

Ging’s eyebrows raise to his hairline. His grip recedes, a cautious lilt to his already drunken smile. He leans against the stairs, a cautious shadow overtaking his frame.

“You can still catch ‘em, you know. Don’t let him go far.”

Gon’s teeth grit, a boundless fury pulsing through his body and channeling a fresh tidal wave of Arcane energy into his veins. He needs to hold back the urge to challenge Ging to a fight, to somehow segue his growing anger and annoyance in the path of his own father.

“Before you get mad at me, kid,” says Ging, shrugging, “you made the choice to keep the shackles off. Unchained prisoners go where they please.”

Gon’s hands ball into fists.

“Use that energy for something useful.” Ging flicks his head to the window.

Snow dapples the glass, painting the first vision of a true turn in winter.

Gon holds his breath.

_Killua._

“Oh, by the way,” Ging drawls, “if you do lose him, don’t bother coming back.”

Gon doesn’t waste another second listening to his father.

He turns, and bolts down the stairwell, green cloak flying behind him in a current of forest colors and shades. He only listens to the sound of his pounding heart, the worried chant of the mage’s name in his thoughts, and the rushed collection of images and paths he knows where the mage could have gone.

Outside, the world has changed. Heavy snow drapes across the world and swallows up the distant mountains and trees in flawless white. His breath puffs into clouds, an instant chill spreading through his body from only stepping out into the frosted grass surrounding the main tower.

Only three horses are left in the stable. One is already missing.

“Damn it, Killua,” growls Gon, shaking his head with a wry smile, “always making me chase you.”

He mounts one of Kurapika’s steeds, quickly adjusting old, worn reins with a firm kick to its sides. He trudges forward, dashing into the forest path that he’d taken only seven days before, in those spare hours where the mage agreed to walk with him into the tower on his own will.

_I’m not going to lose you._

He bites his lip, knuckles blanching white around the reins. He yanks his hood over his spikes as the winds grow harsher, colder. Snow slushes and kicks up under his steed’s hooves, the sound clacking some sense of normalcy into him and his surroundings.

He holds back from screaming Killua’s name.

He needs to find him.

_I can’t lose you…_

The snow grows thicker in the woodlands. Massive tree trunks flitting and crumbling with fresh sheets of ice and frost. He blinks away the bitter dressing of snowflakes on his nose and lashes, and adjusts to the consistently changing vision of the woods, and the occasional red swallow flying through the treetops.

He spots the back of the horse stolen from the tower before he recognizes the rider.

Then, he yanks on the reins, and pulls into an abrupt stop.

He’s seconds away from screaming, from shouting and wrenching his heart out of his chest as some form of peace offering. He hops off of his steed, marching, yanking himself through the heavy snow with little regard to anything else.

Then, the silhouette turns, one hand resting on the flank of the stallion.

One would not believe it was the mage prisoner on first glance. The cloak is unfamiliar on him, blue as the midnight sky bereft of stars, hood pulled just slightly back over a crown of silver-white locks. The sleek, ivory skin, the natural rosy blush to those slanted cheeks, and the shock of his cerulean blue eyes are enough to render Gon speechless even now.

His heart races, faster than it ever has before, slamming into his ribs with the weight of his fears, of his darkest and brightest emotions, and the desire of more than anything to pull Killua close to him and convince himself that he’s real.

He chokes out, a terrible sound halfway between a relieved groan and a laugh.

“Killua.”

Instantly, Killua whips around, hood falling back to his nape. Snowflakes dress his pale skin and pale lashes, soft and supple in his hair.

It doesn’t make sense, Gon thinks, to why he would think back to the first day they met.

“Gon…? Why did you—” Killua splutters, his glare hardened into daggers. The disbelief on his face is almost staggering. “You have to go back. I can’t do this with you—I can’t bring you back into what I’m planning to do now—”

“Why did you leave?”

Killua stops, blinking. “I—what?”

“Killua.” Gon’s jaw clenches. “ _Why_ did you leave? You don’t…” he shakes his head. “No, you, you don’t get to just leave like that. You _can’t_. If you’re going anywhere, there’s no way you can expect me to not be there—”

“This isn’t about you!” Killua snaps. “What makes you think that you have the right to what I’m doing? To my own mission? I have to go and save Alluka, and Nanika too!” He snaps his head away, not daring to meet Gon’s furious eyes. “You think that you have a right to me like that? Like you _own_ me in some way?”

“No.” Gon slowly shakes his head, unbelieving. “You don’t think that. I know you don’t.”

“Well,” Killua laughs, a sound so utterly broken that it snaps Gon’s heart in two. “There’s no way I can help you and your… regime, or whatever you call it. My magic is nowhere near its normal state, and that’s because of my connection to Alluka and Nanika. I can’t leave them.” He bites his lip. “They’re a part of me. I feel… incomplete, without them.”

Gon’s fists clench. “You could have told me.”

“You wouldn’t have listened,” says Killua. “You would’ve told me to stay anyway. That’s why I left. I can’t—gods, believe it or not I care about you too much. I just…” he pinches the bridge of his nose, exasperated. Exhausted. “I _need_ to do this. I have to save Alluka and Nanika, and find a way to enter that Doorway again. Without me, they’ll die. For all I know Illumi could have found them already.”

Gon steps closer, resisting the immediate temptation to embrace Killua and actually register what the mage is telling him.

“That doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.”

Killua glances at him, eyes wide. Mouth open. Awed.

He’s never looked more beautiful.

Gon swallows.

“You…” Killua’s rosy cheeks turn darker. He hesitates, even as Gon steps even closer to him. “You don’t mean that. You can’t… are you—I know that you’re insane, but there’s no way you actually understand what you’re telling me. You have a regime being built here for _war_ , you fucking idiot!”

Gon barks out a harsh, dry laugh, running his hands through his hair.

“No, no, you don’t get to do that,” says Gon, raising his voice. “You don’t get to just assume what I’m thinking, Killua! Do you really think I would come out here to find you if I didn’t care? That I wouldn’t tear through every forest and mountain just to find you again?”

Killua’s jaw snaps shut. He trembles, pupils flickering about.

“I don’t understand why you—”

“I love you.”

Killua’s protest dies on his lips. He stares, awestruck, blinking rapidly as if going back and forth between one world and the next. Gon is smiling, the relief of saying the words aloud light and tender in his chest, like an explosion of sparks he’d been waiting to release for days on end.

Killua’s brow furrows, his doubts growing. Lingering.

“No, you can’t—”

“I do.”

Gon nods. Steps closer.

“I have for a long time. And I know you feel the same way.”

He’s close enough to count Killua’s dusted eyelashes, to feel his warm breath coasting over his lips. He reaches out, tenderly drifting over Killua’s pale hair, stark and glinting like steel against the snow.

“I’m in love with you, Killua,” Gon whispers, resisting every temptation to capture the other’s mouth in his own. “Wherever you go, whatever your mission is, I’ll go, too. So please, Killua,” he continues, dipping his head, “don’t push me away.”

Killua’s throat bobs. He bites his bottom lip, staring into Gon’s eyes with little above the ripples of fear and reluctant acceptance.

“… You’re more stubborn than a donkey in heat,” grumbles Killua.

Gon snorts, bursting into laughter. It’s a gentle, rhythmic sound, bouncing in the massive trees looming above them in brittle branches and swaying, snow-dressed leaves.

A ghost of a smile crosses Killua’s lips. He turns, gaze locked on the distant storm brewing in the distance.

The mountains stretch like gaping claws and fangs towards the sky. Villages and cities torn through war and bloodshed beneath the Ant King’s rule will lie in the grasp of winter. Old secrets and legends linger in ancient carvings and stones of ruins left uncovered.

“You’re sure about this?” Killua whispers, staring at the ground, his pale face painted in tender pink and red.

Gon swoops in, pecks him on the lips, and smiles against his mouth.

He presses his forehead to Killua’s, relishing the feel of the other male so close to him, leaning and just as strong, if not more, than him.

“More than anything,” he says, as soft as summer flowers.

Killua swallows, his body stiff. He exhales, and reaches to the back of Gon’s neck to keep his forehead pressed to his, as if the connection could break in any second.

“You’re so embarrassing, you know that?” He grins crookedly, muffled in the layers of his own stolen cloak. “And,” he hesitates, grumbling, “I… I’m in love with you, too.”

Gon chuckles.

“I know, I had a feeling.”

Killua snorts and shoves him away, mortification painting his entire face scarlet.

“Fuck you, Courier!” he snaps.

“Maybe someday.”

Killua gapes, spluttering.

“I—I change my mind, you can’t come with me.”

“Hah?” Gon pouts. “But, Killua—”

“Nope. You ruined everything. It’s done now. No going back.”

Gon’s chuckles change into an uproar of laughter. Killua stares, as if entranced by the sound, until he, too, breaks into his own broken guffaws. They laugh, and shed tears borne of happiness and old regrets, flourishing between them in a connection only they understand.

Killua shakes his head as he calms down, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” he says.

Gon smirks, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Well, we need to find a lead to where Alluka could be, right?” He dips his head, pondering. “So, one of the largest libraries in the country is less than fifty miles north from here. We can stop and gather some supplies, and maybe ask around.”

Killua nods in agreement.

“Yeah… that,” he chuckles, watching Gon as if he’s the most incomprehensible thing he’s ever encountered, “that could work.”

Gon grins, ruffling Killua’s hair. The other man blinks at him, raising an eyebrow, oblivious to the rise and fall of Gon’s heart in his chest, and the gradual joy that takes him into a new height.

“So.” He nods, gesturing to their horses. “Let’s go, before the storm gets worse. Winter’s here, after all.”

Killua swats at his hand, though his tender smile and bright blue eyes promise nothing but honesty and a new warmth that Gon wishes to cherish today, tomorrow, and every day after that.

“Yeah, already waiting for spring to get here,” Killua mutters.

Gon smiles, taking Killua’s wrist and quickly pressing their lips together. Killua blinks, and melts into the embrace, his own touch warm and supple under Gon’s advance.

_I never want to stop being in love with you._

The Arcane smiles into the kiss, and the mage reciprocates with a tender shove and snarky grin.

“Story for a story, right?” Killua says, breathless.

Gon chuckles, shaking his head. “As always.”

Killua grins. “Yeah. Sure. Guess it’s…” he shrugs, pulling away. “That’s how it all started.”

Gon hums, nodding in agreement. “But you know, Killua, there is one thing.”

“Hm?”

Gon presses his lips to his ear, his smile genuine and soft.

Killua shudders under his touch, seeking his warmth and pushing against it, unsure and embarrassed even now, and Gon loves him all the more for it.

“This time, our story begins together.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please don't be afraid to let me know what you think in the comments below. :)
> 
> Also I have a random and extremely unimpressive Tumblr now. Let's talk. :D 
> 
> https://driftingglass.tumblr.com/


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